as his mother entered the kitchen of the Granny Houses Farm. She
had been summoned from Rehoboth by a collier, fleet of foot, who,
as soon as the injured boy was brought to the pit-bank, started
with the sad news to the distant village. No sooner did the woman
catch the purport of the news, than she ran out wildly into the
snowy air--not waiting to don shawl or clogs, but speeding over
the white ground as those only speed who love, and who know their
loved ones are in need.
A wild wind was blowing from the north, and the fleecy particles
fell in fantastic whirls and spirals, to drift in treacherous
banks over the gullies and falls that lay along the path; while
here and there thin black lines, sinuous in their trend, told
where moorland waters flowed, and guided the hurrying mother to
her distant goal. The groaning trees, tossed by the tempest, flung
off showers of half-frozen flakes, that falling on her flaming
cheeks failed to cool the fever of her suspense, while the
yielding snow beneath her feet became a tantalus path, delaying
her advance, and seeming to make more distant her suffering child.
Ploughing her way through the Green Fold Clough, she climbed the
steeps at the further end, and stood, breathless, on the bank of
the great reservoir that lay dark in the hollow of the white
hills. Her heart beat savagely and loud--so loud that she heard it
above the din of the storm; and cruel pain relentlessly stabbed
her heaving side, while her breath was fetched in quick
respirations.
As she thus stood, tamed in her race of love by the imperative
call of exhausted nature, Dr. Hale loomed through the snowy haze,
and, reading instinctively who she was and whither she was bound,
proffered his assistance for the remaining half of the journey.
He had not walked with her for many yards before he saw her
exposed condition. Her hair was flying in frozen tresses about her
unshawled bosom, and no outer covering protected her from the
chill blast.
'Mrs. Wallwork,' said he, 'you ought not to be crossing the moors
a night like this, uncovered as you are. You are tempting Nature
to do her worst with you, you know.'
'Ne'er heed me, doctor. It's mi lad yon aw want yo' to heed. I
shall be all reet if he's nobbud reet. I con walk faster if yo'
con,' and so saying, the jaded woman sprang, like a stung horse,
under the spur of love.
'But I have two lives to think of,' replied Dr. Hale, 'both
mother's and son's.'
'Mine's naught, doctor, when he's i' danger. Who bothers their
yeds abaat theirsels when them as they care more for are i' need?
Let's hurry up, doctor.'
And again she sprang forward, to struggle with renewed effort
through the yielding snow. Then, turning towards her companion,
she cried:
'Where wur he hurt, doctor? Did they tell yo'?'
But the doctor was silent.
Seizing his arm with eager grip, she continued:
'Dun yo' think he's livin', doctor? Or is he deead? Did they say
he wur deead?'
'We must be patient a little longer,' was the doctor's kind reply.
'See! there's the light in the window of Granny Houses!'
And there shone the light--distant across the fields, and blurred
and indistinct through the falling snow. Without waiting to find
the path, the mother ran in a direct line towards it, scaling the
walls with the nimbleness of youth, to fall exhausted on the
threshold of the farmstead.
Raising herself, she looked round with a blank stare, dazed with
the glow of the fire and the light of the lamp. In the further
corners of the room, and away from each other, sat the old woman
and Mr. Penrose and Malachi o' the Mount, while on the settle
beneath the window lay the sheeted dead.
'Where's th' lad?' cried the mother, the torture of a great fear
racking her features and agonizing her voice.
There was no reply, the three watchers by the dead helplessly and
mutely gazing at the snow-covered figure that stood beneath the
open doorway within a yard of her child.
'Gronny, doesto yer? Where's my lad? And yo', Malachi--yo' took
him daan th' shaft wi' yo'; what ban yo' done wi' him?'
Still there was no response. A paralysis silenced each lip. None
of the three possessed a heart that dared disclose the secret.
Seeing the sheeted covering on the settle, the woman, with frantic
gesture, tore it aside, and when her eye fell on the little face,
grand in death's calm, a great rigor took hold of her, and then
she became rigid as the dead on whom her gaze was fixed.
In a little while she stooped over the boy, and, baring the cold
body, looked long at the crushed and discoloured parts, at last
bending low her face and kissing them until they were warm with
her caress. Then old granny, turning round to Mr. Penrose,
whispered:
'Thank God, hoo's weepin'!'
'Let her weep,' said Dr. Hale; 'there's no medicine like tears.'
* * * * *
That night, long after the snow had ceased to fall, and the
tempestuous winds with folded wings were hushed in repose, and
distant stars glittered in steely brightness, the two women,
holding each other's hand, sat over the hearth of the solitary
moorland farmstead. They were widows both, and both now were
sisters in the loss of an only child.
Granny, as she was called, bore that name not from relationship,
but from her kindliness and age. It was the pet name given to her
by the colliers to whom she so often ministered in their risks and
exposures at the adjacent pit. Into her life the rain had fallen.
After fifteen years of domestic joy, her only child, a son, fell
before the breath of fever, and in the shadow of that loss she
ever since walked. Then her husband succumbed to the exposure of a
winter's toil, and now for long she had lived alone. But as she
used to say, 'Suppin' sorrow had made her to sup others' sorrow
with them.' Her cup, though deep and full, had not embittered her
heart, but led her to drink with those whose cup was deeper than
her own. The death of little Job had rolled away the stone from
the mouth of the sepulchre of her own dead child; and as she held
the hand of the lately-bereaved mother she dropped many a word of
comfort.
'I'll tell thee what aw've bin thinkin',' said the old woman.
'What han yo' bin thinkin', Gronny?'
'Why, I've bin thinkin' haa good th' Almeety is--He's med angels
o' them as we med lads.'
'I durnd know what yo' mean, Gronny.'
'Why, it's i' this way, lass; my Jimmy and yor little Job wur aar
own, wurnd they?'
'Yi, forsure they wur.'
'We feshioned 'em, as the Psalmist sez, didn't we?'
'Thaa sez truth, Gronny,' wept the younger woman.
'And we feshioned 'em lads an' o'.'
'Yi, and fine uns; leastways, my little Job wur--bless him.'
And the mother turned her tearful eyes towards the settle whereon
lay the corpse.
'Well, cornd yo' see as God hes finished aar wark for us, and what
we made lads, He's made angels on?'
'But aw'd sooner ha' kept mine. Angels are up aboon, thaa knows;
an' heaven's a long way off.'
'Happen noan so far as thaa thinks, lass; and then th' Almeety
will do better by 'em nor we con.'
'Nay, noan so, Gronny. God cornd love Job better nor I loved him.'
'But he willn't ged crushed in a coile seam i' heaven; naa, lass,
will he?'
'Thaa's reet, Gronny, he willn't. But if He mak's us work here,
why does He kill us o'er th' job, as he's killed mi little lad?'
'Thaa mun ax Mr. Penrose that, lass; I'm no scholard.'
'Aw'll tell thee what it is, Gronny. It noan seems reet that thee
and me should be sittin' by th' fire, and little Job yonder cowd
i' th' shadow. Let's pool up th' settle to th' fire; he's one on
us, though he's deead.'
'Let him alone, lass; he's better off nor them as wants fire;
there's no cowd wheer he's goan.'
Rising from her chair, and turning the sheet once more from off
the boy's face, the mother said:
'Where hasto goan, lad? Tell thi mother, willn't taa?' And then,
looking round at the old woman, she said, 'Doesto think he yers
(hears) me, Gronny?'
'Aw welly think he does, lass; but durnd bother him naa. He's
happen restin', poor little lad; or happen he's telling them as is
up aboon all abaat thee--who knows?'
'Aw say, Gronny, Jesus made deead fo'k yer Him when He spok',
didn't He?'
'Yi, lass, He did forsure.'
'Who wur that lass He spok' to when He turned 'em all aat o' th'
room, wi' their noise and shaatin'?'
'Tha means th' rich mon's lass, doesndto?'
'Yi! Did He ever do ought for a poor mon's lass?'
'He did for a poor woman's lad, thaa knows--a widder's son--one
like thine.'
'But he's noan here naa, so we's be like to bide by it, ey, dear?
Mi lad! mi lad!'
'Don't tak' on like that, lass; noather on us 'll hev to bide
long. It's a long road, I know, when fo'k luk for'ards; but it's
soon getten o'er, and when thaa looks back'ards it's nobbud short.
I tell thee I've tramped it, and I durnd know as I'm a war woman
for the journey. It's hard wark partin' wi' your own; but then
theer's th' comfort o' havin' had 'em. I'd rayther hev a child and
bury it, nor be baat childer, like Miriam Heap yonder.'
'Aw dare say as yo're reet, Gronny; aw's cry and fret a deal over
little Job, but then aw's hev summat to think abaat, shornd I? Aw
geet his likeness taken last Rehoboth fair by a chap as come in a
callivan (caravan), and it hengs o'er th' chimley-piece. But aw's
noan see th' leet in his een ony more, nor yer his voice, nor tak'
him wi' me to th' chapel on Sundos,' and the woman again turned to
the dead boy, and fondly lingered over his familiar features,
weeping over them her tears of despair.
'Come, lass, tha munn't tak' on like that. Sit yo' daan, an' I'll
tell yo' what owd Mr. Morell said to me when mi lad lay deead o'
th' fayver, and noan on 'em would come near me. He said I mut
(must) remember as th' Almeety had nobbud takken th' lad upstairs.
But aw sez, "Mr. Morell, theer's mony steps, an' I cornd climb
'em." "Yi," sez he, "theer is mony steps, but yo' keep climbin' on
'em every day, and one day yo'll ged to th' top and be i' th' same
raam (room) wi' him." An', doesto know, every time as I fretted
and felt daan, I used to think o' him as was upstairs, and
remember haa aw wur climbin' th' steps an' gettin' nearer him.'
'But yo've noan getten to th' top yet, Gronny.'
'No, aw hevn't, but aw'm a deal nearer nor aw wur when he first
laft me. An' doesto know, lass, aw feel misel to be gettin' so
near naa that aw can welly yer him singin'. There's nobbud a step
or two naa, and then we's be i' th' same raam.'
'An' is th' Almeety baan to mak' me climb as mony steps as thaa's
climbed afore I ged into th' same raam as He's takken little Job
too, thinksto?'
'Ey, lass. Aw durnd know; but whether thaa's to climb mony or few
thaa'll hev strength gien thee, as aw hev.'
'Aw wish God's other room wurnd so far off, Gronny--nobbud t'other
side o' th' wall instead o' th' story aboon. Durnd yo'?'
'Nay, lass; they're safer upstairs. Thaa knows He put's 'em aat o'
harm's way.'
'But aw somehaa think aw could ha' takken care o' little Job a bit
longer. And when he'd groon up, thaa knows, he could ha' takken
care o' me.'
'Yi, lass; we're awlus for patchin' th'Almeety's work; and if He
leet us, we's mak' a sorry mess on it and o'.'
'Well, Gronny, if I wur God Almeety I'd be agen lettin' lumps o'
coile fall and crush th' life aat o' lads like aar Job. It's a
queer way o' takkin 'em upstairs, as yo' co it.'
'Hooisht! lass, thaa mornd try to speerit through th' clouds that
are raand abaat His throne. He tak's one i' one way, an another i'
another; but if He tak's em to Hissel they're better off than
they'd be wi' us.'
'Well, Gronny, aw tell thee, aw cornd see it i' that way yet;' and
again the mother caressed the body of her son.
Once more she turned towards the old woman, and said:
'Aw shouldn't ha' caared so mich, Gronny, if he'd deed as yor lad
deed--i' his own bed, an' wi' a fayver; bud he wur crushed wi' a
lump o' coile! Poor little lad! Luk yo' here!' and the mother
bared the body and showed the discoloured parts.
'Did ta' ever see a child dee o' fayver, lass?'
'Not as aw know on. Aw've awlus bin flayed, and never gone near
'em.'
'Thaa may thank God as thy lad didn't dee of a fayver. Aw's never
forgeet haa th' measter and I watched and listened to aar lad's
ravin's. Haa he rached aat wi' his honds, and kept settin' up and
makin' jumps at what he fancied he see'd abaat him; and when we
co'd him he never knowed us. Nowe, lass, he never knowed me until
one neet he seemed to come to hissel, and then he looked at me and
said, "Mother!" But it wur all he said--he never spok' at after.'
'Yi; but yo' see'd yur lad dee--and mine deed afore I could get to
him.'
'That is so, lass! but as aw stood an' see'd mine deein', I would
ha' gien onything if I could ha' shut mi een, or not bin wi' him.
I know summat as what Hagar felt when hoo said, "Let me not see
th' deeath o' th' child"--I do so.'
The younger woman wept, and the tears brought relief to her
pent-up heart. She had found a mother's ear for her mother's
sorrow; and the after-calm of a great grief was now falling over
her. She leaned her aching head on the shoulders of the older and
stronger woman by whose side she sat, and at last her sorrow
brought the surcease of sleep. The fire threw its fitful flicker
on her haggard face, lighting up in strange relief the lines of
agony and the moisture of the freshly fallen tears. Now and again
she sobbed in her slumber--a sob that shook her soul--but she
slept, and sleep brought peace and oblivion.
'Sleep on, lass, sleep on, and God ease thi poor heart,' said the
old Granny, as she held the woman's hand in hers. 'Thaa's hed both
thi travails naa; thaa's travailed i' birth, and thaa's travailed
i' deeath, like mony a poor soul afore thee. There wur joy when
thaa brought him into th' world, and theer's sorrow naa he's goan
aat afore his time. Ey, dear! A mother's life's like an April
morn--sunleet and cloud, fleshes o' breetness, and showers o'
rain.'
And closing her eyes, she, too, slept. And in that lone outlying
fold, far away in the snowy bosom of the hills, there was the
sleep of weariness, the sleep of sorrow, and the sleep of death.
And who shall say that the last was not the kindliest and most
welcome?
III.
THE SNOW CRADLE.
As Mr. Penrose and Malachi o' th' Mount closed the door of Granny
Houses on the sorrowing widowed mother, there opened to them a
fairy realm of snow. Stepping out on its yielding carpet of
crystals, they looked in silent wonder at the fair new world,
where wide moors slept in peaceful purity, and distant hills
lifted their white summits towards the deep cold blue of the
clearing sky. Steely stars glittered and magnified their light
through the lens of the eager, frosty air, and old landmarks were
hidden, and roads familiar to the wayfarer no longer discovered
their trend. Little hillocks had taken the form of mounds, and
stretches of level waste were swept by ranges of drift and
shoulders of obstructing snow.
No sooner did Mr. Penrose look out on this new earth than a
feeling of _lostness_ came on him, and, linking his arm in that of
the old man, he said:
'Can you find the way, Malachi?'
'Wheer to, Mr. Penrose?'
'Why, to Rehoboth, of course. Where else did you think I wanted to
go at this time of night?'
'Nay, that's what I wur wonderin' when yo' axed me if I knew th'
way,' replied the old man.
'Oh! I beg your pardon; I thought perhaps the snow might throw you
off the track.'
'Throw _me_ off th' track, an' on these moors and o'? Nowe, Mr.
Penrose, I hevn't lived on 'em forty years for naught, I con tell
yo'.'
'But when you cannot see your way, what then?'
'Then I walks by instink.'
And by instinct the two men crossed the wastes of snow towards the
Green Fold Clough, through which gorge lay the path that led to
the village below.
Just as they traversed the edge of the Red Moss, old Malachi broke
the silence by saying:
'Well, Mr. Penrose, what do yo' think o' yon?'
'Think of what, Malachi?' asked the perplexed divine, for neither
of them, for some moments, had spoken.
'Think o' yon lad as has getten killed, and o' his mother?'
There are times when a man dares not utter his deepest feelings
because of the commonplace character of the words through which
they only can find expression. If Malachi had asked Mr. Penrose to
write the character of God on a blackboard before a class of
infants, he would not have been placed in a greater difficulty
than that now involved by the question of Malachi. Already his
mind was dark with the problem of suffering. Little Job's cry for
'the candle of the Almeety' had reached depths he knew not were
hidden in his heart; while the look in the mother's face, as she
stood snow-covered in the doorway of the farmstead, and as the
firelight lent its glare to her blanched and pain-wrought face,
continued ceaselessly to haunt him. And now Malachi wanted to know
what he thought of it all! How could he tell him?
Finding Mr. Penrose remained silent, Malachi continued: 'Yon
woman's supped sorrow, and no mistak'. Hoo buried her husband six
months afore yon lad wur born. Poor little felley! he never know'd
his faither.'
'Ah! I never knew that. Then she _has_ supped sorrow, as you call
it.'
'Owd Mr. Morell used to say as he could awlus see her deead
husband's face i' hers until th' child wur born, and then it left
her, and hoo carried th' face o' th' little un hoo brought up. But
it'll be a deead face hoo'll carry in her een naa, I'll be bun
for't.'
'How was it his mother sent him to work in the pit?--such a
dangerous calling, and the boy so young.'
'You'll know a bit more, Mr. Penrose, when yo've lived here a bit
longer. His fo'k and hers hev bin colliers further back nor I can
remember; and they noan change trades wi' us.'
'But why need he go to work so young?' asked the minister.
Malachi stopped and gazed in astonishment at the minister, and
then said:
'I durnd know as he would ha' worked in th' pit, Mr. Penrose, if
you'd ha' kep' him and his mother and o'. But fo'k mun eat, thaa
knows. Th' Almeety's gan o'er rainin' daan manna fro' heaven, as
He used to do in th' wilderness.'
Mr. Penrose did not reply.
'Yo' know, Mr. Penrose,' continued Malachi, 'workin' in a
coile-pit is like preychin': it's yezzy (easy) enugh when yo' ged
used to 't. An' as for danger--why, yo' connot ged away fro' it.
As owd Amos sez, yo're as safe i' one hoile (workshop) as
another.'
'Yes; that's sound philosophy,' assented Mr. Penrose.
'Mr. Morell once tell'd us in his preychin' abaat a chap as axed a
oracle, or summat, what kind of a deeath he would dee; and when he
wur towd that he would happen an accident o' some sort, they
couldn't geet him to shift aat o' his garden, for fear he'd be
killed. But it wur all no use; for one day, as he wur sittin'
amang his flaars, a great bird dropped a stooan, and smashed his
yed. So yo' see, Mr. Penrose, if yo've to dee in th' pulpit yo'll
dee theer, just as little Job deed i' th' coile-pit.'
As Malachi delivered himself of this bit of Calvinistic
philosophy, a sound of voices was borne in on the two men from the
vale below, and looking in the direction whence it came, the old
man and Mr. Penrose saw a group of dark figures thrown into relief
on the background of snow.
The sounds were too distant to be distinctly heard, but every now
and then there was mingled with them the short, sharp bark of a
dog.
'I welly think that's Oliver o' Deaf Martha's dog,' excitedly
cried Malachi. 'Surely he's noan poachin' a neet like this? He's
terrible lat' wi' his wark if he is.'
'If I'm not mistaken, that is Moses Fletcher's voice,' replied Mr.
Penrose. 'Listen!'
'You're reet; that's Moses' voice, or I'm a Jew. What's he doin'
aat a neet like this, wi' Oliver's dog? I thought he'd bed enough
o' that beast to last his lifetime.'
The two men were now leaning over a stone wall and looking down
into the ravine below. Suddenly Malachi pricked up his ears, and
said:
'An' that's Amos's voice an' all. By Guy, if it hedn't bin for
Oliver o' Deaf Martha's I should ha' said it wur hevin' a
prayer-meetin' i' th' snow. What's brought owd Amos aat wi'
Moses--to say naught o' th' dog?'
Just then an oath reached the ears of the listening men.
'No prayer-meeting, Malachi,' said Mr. Penrose, laughing.
'Nowe--nobbud unless they're like Ab' o' th' Heights, who awlus
swore a bit i' his prayers, because, as he said, swearin' wur
mighty powerful. But him as swore just naa is Oliver hissel--I'll
lay mi Sunday hat on't.'
By this time the moving figures on the snow were approaching the
foot of the hill whereon the two men stood, and Malachi, raising
his hands to his mouth, greeted them with a loud halloo.
Immediately there came a reply. It was from Oliver himself, in a
loud, importuning voice:
'Han yo' fun him?'
'Fun who?' asked Malachi.
'Why, that chilt o' mine! Who didsto think we wur lookin' for?'
'Who knew yo' were lookin' for aught but--'
'Which child have you lost?' cried Mr. Penrose, for Oliver had a
numerous family.
'Little Billy--him as Moses pooled aat o' the lodge.'
'Come along, Malachi, let us go down and help; it's a search
party.'
* * * * *
Everybody in Rehoboth knew little Billy o' Oliver's o' Deaf
Martha's. He was a smart lad of eight years, with a vivid
imagination and an active brain. His childish idealism, however,
found little food in the squalid cottage in which he dragged out
his semi-civilized existence; but among the hills he was at home,
and there he roamed, to find in their fastnesses a region of
romance, and in their gullies and cloughs the grottoes and falls
that to him were a veritable fairy realm. Child as he was, in the
summer months he roamed the shady plantations, and sailed his chip
and paper boats down their brawling streams, feeding on the nuts
and berries, and lying for hours asleep beneath the shadows of
their branching trees. He was one of the few children into whose
mind Amos failed to find an inlet for the catechism; and once,
during the past summer, he had blown his wickin-whistle in
Sunday-school class, and been reprimanded by the superintendent
because he gathered blackberries during the sacred hours.
A few days previous to his disappearance in the snow he had heard
the legend of Jenny Greenteeth, the haunting fairy of the Green
Fold Clough, and how that she, who in the summer-time made the
flowers grow and the birds sing, hid herself in winter on a shelf
of rock above the Gin Spa Well, a lone streamlet that gurgled from
out the rocky sides of the gorge. The story laid hold of his young
mind, and under the glow of his imagination assumed the
proportions of an Arabian Nights' wonder. He dreamed of it by
night, and during the day received thrashings not a few from his
zealous schoolmaster, because his thoughts were away from his
lessons with Jenny Greenteeth in her Green Fold Clough retreat. On
this, the afternoon of the first snowfall of the autumn, there
being a half-holiday, the boy determined once more to explore the
haunts of the fairy; and just as Mr. Penrose turned out of his
lodgings to kill the prose of his life, which he felt to be
killing him, Oliver o' Deaf Martha's little boy turned out of his
father's hovel to feed the poetry that was stirring in his
youthful soul. The north wind blew through the rents and seams of
his threadbare clothing; but its chill was not felt, so warm with
excitement beat his little heart. And when the first flakes fell,
he clapped his hands in wild delight, and sang of the plucking of
geese by hardy Scotchmen, and the sending of their feathers across
the intervening leagues.
Poor little fellow! His was a hard lot when looked at from where
Plenty spread her table and friends were manifold. But he was not
without his compensations. His home was the moors, and his parent
was Nature. He knew how to leap a brook, and snare a bird, and
climb a tree, and shape a boat, and cut a wickin-whistle, and many
a time and oft, when bread was scarce, he fed on the berries that
only asked to be plucked, and grew so plentifully along the sides
of the great hills.