snowy cumuli--billowy masses swept from distant cloud tempests,
and now spending their force in flecks of white across the blue
sky-sea that lay peaceful over awakening Rehoboth. A fresh wind
travelled from the gates of the sun, laden with upland sweets, and
mellowing moment by moment under the directer rays of the eastern
king; while the sycamores in the garden, as if in playful protest,
bent before the touch of its caress, only to rise and rustle as,
for the moment, they escaped the haunting and besetting breeze,
lending to their protest the dreamy play of light and shade from
newly-unsheathed leaves. There was a strange silence, too--a
silence that made mystic music in Matt's heart--a silence all the
more profound because of the distant low of oxen, and the strain
of an old Puritan hymn sung by a shepherd in a neighbouring field.
Matt's heart was full, and, though he knew it not, he was a
worshipper--he was in the spirit on the Lord's Day.
'Is that thee, Matt?'
'Yi, lass, for sure it is. Who else should it be, thinksto?'
'Nay, I knew it were noabry but thee; but one mun say summat, thaa
knows. What arto doin' at th' winder? Has th' hens getten in th'
garden agen?'
'Nowe, not as aw con see.'
'Then what arto lookin' at? Thaa seems fair gloppened
(surprised).'
'I'm nobbud lookin' aat a bit. It's a bonny seet and o', I can
tell thee.'
'Thaa's sin' it mony a time afore, lad, hesn't ta? Is there aught
fresh abaat it?'
'There's summat fresh i' mi een, awm thinkin'. Like as I never
seed th' owd country look as grand as it looks this morn.'
'Aw'll hev a look wi' thee, Matt; ther'll happen be summat fresh
for my een and o'.'
And so saying, Miriam crept to his side and, in unblushing
innocence, took her stand at the window with Matt.
It was a comely picture which the little birds saw as they
twittered round and peeped through the ivy-covered casement where
Matt and Miriam stood framed in the morning radiance and in the
glow of domestic love--she with loose tresses lying over her bare
shoulders, all glossy in the sunshine, her head resting on the
strong arm of him who owned her, and drew her in gentle pride to
his beating heart--the two together looking out in all the joy of
purity and all the unconscious ease of nature on the sun-flooded
moors.
'It's grand, lass, isn't it?'
'Yi, Matt, it is forsure.'
'And them hills--they're awlus slumberin', am't they? Doesto know,
I sometimes wish I could be as quiet as they are. They fret noan;
weet or fine, it's all th' same to them.'
'They're a bit o'er quiet for me, lad. I'd rather hev a tree
misel. It tosses, thaa knows, and tews i' th' tempest, and laughs
i' th' sunleet, and fades i' autumn. It's some like a human bein'
is a tree.'
'An' aw sometimes think there's summat very like th' Almeety i'
th' hills.'
'Doesto, Matt? Ey, aw shouldn't like to think He were so far off
as they are, nor as cowd (cold) noather.'
'Nay, lass, they're noan so far off. Didn't owd David say, "As th'
mountens are raand abaat Jerusalem, so th' Lord is raand abaat His
people"?'
'He did, forsure. But didn't he say that a good man were like a
tree planted by th' brookside?'
'Yi; and he said summat else abaat a good woman, didn't he,
Miriam?'
'What were that, lad?'
'Why, didn't th' owd songster say, "Thy wife shall be as a
fruitful vine by th' sides o' thine house, and thi childer like
olive plants raand abaat thy table"?'
Miriam blushed, and held up her lips to be kissed; nor did Matt
faintly warm them with his caresses.
* * * * *
That afternoon, as Matt and Miriam walked down the field-path
towards the Rehoboth shrine, they wondered how it was that so much
praise was rendered to the Almighty outside the temple made with
hands. Both of them had been taught to locate God in a house.
Rehoboth chapel was His dwelling-place--not the earth with the
fulness thereof, and the heavens with their declaration of glory.
Yet, somehow or other, they felt to-day that moor and meadow were
sacred--that their feet trod paths as holy as the worn stone aisle
of the conventicle below. The airs of spring swept round them,
carrying notes from near and far--whisperings from the foliage of
trees, and cadences from moors through whose herbage the wind
lisped, and from doughs down which it moaned. Early flowers vied
with the early greenery carpeting the fields, and the grass was
long enough to wave in shadow and intermingle its countless
glistening blades. Then their hearts went out towards Nature's
harmonies; and tears started to Miriam's eyes as the larks dropped
their music from the sunny heights. Now they passed patient oxen
looking out at them with quiet, impressive eyes, and the plaintive
bleat of the little lambs still brought many a throb to Miriam's
heart.
Turning down by the Clough, they met old Enoch and his wife, who,
though on their way to Rehoboth, were so full of the spirit of the
hour and the season that they thought little of the bald ritual
and barn-like sanctuary that was drawing their steps.
'This is grond, lad,' said Enoch to Matt, as he threw back his
shoulders to take a deep inspiration of the moorland air. 'It's
fair like a breath o' th' Almeety.'
'Yi; it's comin' fro' th' delectable mountains, for sure it is.
I'm just thinkin' it's too fine to go inside this afternoon.'
'I'll tell thee what, Matt, I know summat haa that lad Jacob felt
when he co'd th' moorside th' gate o' heaven.'
'Ey, bless thee, Enoch, it wernd half as grand as this!' said his
wife, as she plucked a spray of may blossom from a hawthorn that
overarched the path through the Clough.
'Mebbe not, lass; but aw know summat haa he felt like.'
'Did it ever strike thee, Enoch, that there were a deal o'
mountain climbin' among th' owd prophets--like as they fun th'
Almeety on th' brow (hill)?'
'Aw never made much o' th' valleys, lad. Them as lived in 'em hes
bin a bad lot. We may well thank God as we live up as high as we
do. But I'll tell yo' what--we're baan to be lat' for the service.
Step it aat, lasses.'
On reaching the chapel yard, they found Amos Entwistle dismissing
his catechism class with a few words of warning as to deportment
during service, whilst old Joseph was busy cuffing the unruly lads
whose predilections for dodging round the gravestones overcame the
better instinct of reverence for the day and for the dead. Mr.
Penrose was just entering the vestry, and discordant sounds came
through the open door as of stringed instruments in process of
tuning.
The congregation was soon seated--a hardy race, reared on the
hills, and disciplined in the straitest of creeds. Stolid and
self-complacent, theirs was an unquestioning faith, accepting, as
they did, the Divine decrees as a Mohamedan accepts his fate. What
was, was right--all as it should be; elect, or non-elect, according
to the fore-knowledge, it was well. Sucking in their theology with
their mothers' milk, and cradled in sectarian traditions, they
loved justice before mercy, and seldom walked humbly before God.
And yet these Rehoboth mothers had borne and reared a strong
offspring--children hard, narrow, and self-righteous, yet of firm
fibre, and of real grit withal.
The mothers of Rehoboth were famous women, and bore the names of
the great Hebrew women of old. Among them were Leahs, Hannahs,
Hagars, and Ruths, yet none held priority to Deborah Heap, the
mother of Matt. Tall, gaunt, iron-visaged, with crisp, black locks
despite her threescore years, she was a prophetess among her
kindred--mighty in the Scriptures, and inflexible in faith.
Hers was the illustrious face of that afternoon's
congregation--the face a stranger would first fasten his eye on,
and on which his eye would remain; a face, too, he would fear.
History was writ large on every line, character had set its seal
there, and a crown of superb strength reposed on the brow. She
guarded the door of her pew, which door she had guarded since her
husband's death; and her deep-set eyes, glowing with suppressed
passion, never flinched in their gaze at the preacher. Now and
again the thin nostrils dilated as Mr. Penrose smote down some of
her idols; but for this occasional sign her martyrdom was mute and
inexpressive.
No one loved Deborah Heap, although those who knew her measured
out to her degrees of respect. She was never known to wrong friend
or foe; and yet no kindly words ever fell from her lips, nor did
music of sympathy mellow her voice. Her life had been unrelieved
by a single deed of charity. She was, in old Mr. Morell's
language, 'a negative saint.' Mr. Penrose went further, and called
her 'a Calvinistic pagan.' But none of these things moved her.
The grievance of her life was Matt's marriage with an alien; for
Miriam was a child of the Established Church. Great, too, was the
grievance that no children gladdened the hearth of the unequally
yoked couple; and this the old woman looked on as the curse of the
Almighty in return for her son's disobedience in sharing his lot
with the uncovenanted.
And yet Matt loved his mother; not, however, as he loved his wife,
for whom he held a tender, doating love, which the old woman was
quick to see, though silent to resent, save when she said that
'Matt were fair soft o'er th' lass.' Nothing so pleased him as to
be able to respect his mother's wish without giving pain to his
wife. Always loyal to Miriam, he sought to be dutiful to Deborah,
and, though the struggle was at times hard and taxing, few
succeeded better in holding a true balance of behaviour between
the twin relations of son and husband.
Now that Miriam had confided to him her secret, he felt sure his
mother's anger would be somewhat turned away when she, too, shared
it. And all through the afternoon service he moved restlessly,
eager for the hour when, at her own fireside, he could convey the
glad news to her ears.
And when that hour came, it came all too soon, for never were Matt
and Miriam more confused than when they faced each other at the
tea-table of Deborah. A painful repression was on them; ominous
silence sealed their lips, and they flushed with a heightened
colour. Matt's carefully-prepared speech forsook him--all its
prettiness and poetry escaped beyond recall; and Miriam was too
womanly to rescue him in his dilemma.
'It's some warm,' said Matt, drawing his handkerchief over his
heated brow.
'Aw durnd know as onybody feels it but thisel, lad,' replied his
mother; 'but thaa con go i' th' garden, if thaa wants to cool a
bit. Tea's happen made thee sweat.'
Then followed another painful pause, in which Miriam unconsciously
doubled up a spoon, on seeing which the old woman reminded her
that her 'siller wurnd for marlockin' wi' i' that fashion'; and no
sooner had she administered this rebuke than Matt overturned his
tea.
'Are yo' two reet i' yor yeds (heads)?' snapped his mother. 'Yo'
sit theer gawmless-like, one on yo' breakin' th' spoons, and
t'other turnin' teacups o'er. What's come o'er yo'?'
'Mother,' stammered Matt, 'Miriam has summat to tell yo'.'
'Nay, lad, thaa may tell it thisel,' said Miriam.
'Happen thaa cornd for shame, Miriam,' stammered Matt.
'I durnd know as I've ought to be ashamed on, but it seems as
though thaa hedn't th' pluck.'
The old woman grew impatient, and, supposing she was being fooled,
rose from the table, and said:
'I want to know noan o' your secrets. I durnd know as I ever axed
for 'em, and if yo' wait till aw do, I shall never know 'em.'
'It's happen one as yo'd like to know, though, mother.'
'It's happen one as you'd like to tell, lad,' replied the old
woman, softening.
'Well, if we durnd tell yo', yo'll know soon enough, for it's one
o' them secrets as willn't keep--will it, Miriam?' asked Matt of
his blushing wife.
But Miriam was silent, and refused to lift her face from the
pattern of the plate over which she bent low.
'Dun you think yor too owd to be a gronmother?' asked Matt of his
parent, growing in boldness as he warmed to his confession.
'If I were thee I'd ax mysel if I were young enugh to be a
faither, that I would,' said the old woman.
'Well, I shall happen be one afore so long, shornd I, Miriam?'
But tears were streaming from Miriam's eyes, and she answered not.
And then there dawned on the mind of Deborah the cause of her
son's confusion, and a light stole across the hard lines of her
face as she said:
'Is that it, lad? Thank God! thaa'rt in th' covenant after all.'
III.
'IT'S A LAD!'
'Naa, Matt, put on thi coite and fotch th' doctor, an tak' care
thaa doesn't let th' grass grow under thi feet.'
Matt needed no second bidding. In a moment he was ready, and
before the old nurse turned to re-ascend the chamber stairs the
faithful fellow was on his way towards the village below.
It was a morning in November, and as Matt hurried along he passed
many on their way to a day's work at the Bridge Factory in the
vale. Most of them knew him, dark though it was, and greeting him,
guessed the errand on which he raced. Once or twice he collided
with those who were slow to get out of his path, and almost
overturned old Amos Entwistle into the goit as he pushed past him
on the bank that afforded the nearest cut to the village.
'Naa, lad, who arto pushin' agen, and where arto baan i' that
hurry? Is th' haase o' fire, or has th' missus taan her bed?'
But Matt was beyond earshot before the old man finished his rude
rebuke.
Throughout the whole of his journey Matt's mind was a prey to wild
and foreboding passion--passion largely the product of a rude and
superstitious mind. Questions painful, if not foolish, haunted and
tormented him. Would Miriam die? Had not the seven years of their
past life been too happy to last? Did not his mother once reverse
the old Hebrew proverb, and warn him that a night of weeping would
follow a morning of joy? Would Heaven be avenged on his occasional
fits of discontent, and grant him his wish for a child at the cost
of the life of his wife? He had heard how the Almighty discounted
His gifts; how selfish men had to pay dearly for what they
wrenched against the will of God. As he hurried, these thoughts
followed on as fleet feet as his own, and moaned their voices in
his ears with the sounds of the wind.
It was not long before he reached Dr. Hale's door, where he so
lustily rung, that an immediate response was given to his summons,
the man of science putting his head through the window and asking
in peremptory tones who was there.
'It's me, doctor--me--Matt, yo' know--Matt Heap--th' missis is i'
bed, and some bad an' o'. Ne'er mind dressin'. Come naa;' and the
half-demented man panted for breath.
'I'll be with you in a minute, Matt. Don't lose your head, that's
a good fellow,' and so saying, the doctor withdrew to prepare for
the journey.
To Matt, the doctor's minute seemed unending. He shuffled his feet
impatiently along the gravel-path, and beat a tattoo with his
fingers on the panels of the door, muttering under his breath
words betraying an impatient and agitated mind; and when at last
the doctor joined him, ready for departure, the strain of suspense
was so great that both tears and sobs wrung themselves from his
overstrained nature.
The two men walked along in silence, Matt being too timid to
question the doctor, the doctor not caring to give Matt the chance
of worrying him with foolish fears. Now and again Matt in his
impatience tried to lead the doctor into a run, but in this the
self-possessed man checked him, knowing that he covered the most
ground who walked with an even step. For a little time Matt
submitted to the restraint without a murmur. At last, however, his
patience failed him, and he said:
'Do yo' never hurry, doctor?'
'Sometimes, Matt'
'And when is those times, doctor?
'They're bad times, Matt--times of emergency, you know.'
'An' durnd yo' think my missis is hevin' a bad time up at th'
cottage yonder? I welly think yo' might hurry up a bit, doctor.
You'll geet paid for th' job, yo' know. I'm noan afraid o' th'
brass.'
Dr. Hale laughed at the importunity of Matt, but knowing the
doggedness of the man, somewhat quickened his steps, assuring his
impatient companion that all would be well. The doctor soon,
however, regretted his easy-going optimism, for on mounting the
brow before the cottage, Malachi o' th' Mount's wife met him, and
running out towards him, said:
'Hurry up, doctor; thaa'rt wanted badly, I con tell thee. Hoo's
hevin' a bad time on't, and no mistak'.'
It did not take the doctor long to see that his patient was in the
throes of a crisis, and with a will he set about his trying work,
all the more confident because he knew the two women by his side
were experienced hands--hands on whom he could rely in hours of
emergency such as the one he was now called to face.
As for Matt, he sat in the silent kitchen with his feet on the
fender and an unlighted pipe between his teeth. The morning sun
had long since crossed the moors, but its light brought no joy to
his eyes--with him, all was darkness. He heard overhead the
occasional tread of the doctor's foot, and the movements of the
ministering women, while occasionally one of them would steal
quietly down for something needed by the patient above. Between
these breaks--welcome breaks to Matt--the silence became
distressful, and the suspense a burden. Why that hush? What was
going on in those fearful pauses? Could they not tell him how
Miriam was? Was he not her husband, and had he not a right to know
of her who was his own? By what right did the women--good and kind
though they were--step in between himself and her whom he loved
dearer than life? And as these questions pressed him he rose to
climb the stairway and claim a share in ministering to the
sufferings of the one who was his own. But when he reached the
foot he paused, his nerve forsook him, and he trembled like a leaf
beneath the breeze. Straining his ear, he listened, but no sound
came save a coaxing and encouraging word from the old nurse, or a
brief note of instruction from Dr. Hale. Should he call her by her
name? Should he address her as Merry, the pet name which he only
addressed to her? He opened his lips, but his tongue lay heavy. He
could scarcely move it, and as he moved it in his attempt to
speak, he heard its sound as it parted from, or came in contact
with, the dry walls of his mouth. How long he could have borne
this suspense it would be hard to say, had he not heard his
mother's voice at the kitchen-door calling.
'Is that yo', mother?' said Matt, dragging himself from the foot
of the stairway leading to the chamber above. 'Is that yo'?'
'Ey, Matt, whatever's to do wi' thee; aw never see thee look like
that afore. Is Miriam bad, or summat?'
'Nay, mother, they willn't tell me. But go yo' upstairs, and when
you've sin for yorsel come daan and tell me.'
Old Deborah took her son's advice, and went upstairs to where the
suffering woman lay pale and prostrate. She saw, by a glance at
the doctor's face, that he was more than anxious, while the mute
signs of the nurse and Malachi o' th' Mount's wife confirmed her
worst suspicions.
During his mother's absence there returned on Matt the horrible
suspense which her visit had in part enabled him to throw off.
Once more he felt the pressure of the silence, and the room in
which he sat became haunted with a terrible vacancy--a vacancy
cold and shadowy with an unrelieved gloom. There all round him
were the familiar household gods; there they stood in their
appointed places, but where was the hand that ruled them, the
deity that gave grace to that domestic kingdom of the moors? He
looked for the shadow of her form as it was wont to fall on the
hearth, but there was only a blank. He lent his ear to catch the
voice so often raised in merry snatch of song, but not the echo of
a sound greeted him. There was a room only, swept and garnished,
but empty. Then he thought of the great drama of life which was
being enacted in the chamber overhead, and he asked himself why
the hours were so many and why they walked with such leaden feet.
There was she, his Merry, torn between the forces of life and
death, giving of her own that she might perpetuate life, and
braving death that life might be its lord--there was she, fighting
alone! save for the feeble help of science and the cheer and
succour of kindly care, while he, strong man that he was, sat
there, powerless, his very impotence mocking him, and his groans
and anguish but the climax of his despair.
In a little while Matt's mother came downstairs with hopelessness
written on every line of her hard face.
'Thaa'll hev to mak' up thi mind to say good-bye to Miriam, lad.
Hoo's noan baan to howd aat much longer. Hoo's abaat done, poor
lass!'
'Yo' mornd talk like that to me, mother, or I'll put yo' aat o'
the haase. I'm noan baan to say good-bye to Merry yet, by ---- I'
ammot!'
'Well, lad, thaa's no need to be either unnatural nor blasphemous
o'er th' job. What He wills, He wills, thaa knows; and if thaa
willn't bend, thaa mun break.'
'But I'll do noather, mother. Miriam's noan baan to dee yet, I con
tell yo'.'
Just then Dr. Hale descended from the chamber, and beckoning Matt,
whispered in his ear that he deemed it right to tell him that he
feared the worst would overtake his wife, and that she would like
to see him.
The words came to Matt as the first great blow of his life. True,
he had anticipated the worst; but now that it came it was tenfold
more severe than his anticipation. Looking at Dr. Hale with eyes
too dry for tears, he said:
'Aw connot see her, doctor; aw connot see her. Yo' an' th' women
mun do yor best; and don't forget to ax the Almighty to help yo'.'
And so saying, Matt went out in despair into the wild November
day.
As he rushed into the raw air the wind dashed the rain in his face
as though to beat him back within his cottage home. Heedless of
these, however, he pressed forward, wild with grief, seeking to
lose his own madness amid the whirl and confusion of the storm.
Low-lying, angry clouds seethed round the summits of the distant
hills, and mists, like shrouds, hung over the drear and leafless
cloughs. The moorland grasses lay beaten and colourless--great
swamps--reservoirs where lodged the moisture of a long autumn's
rain, while the roads were limp and sodden, and heavy for the
wayfarer's foot. But Matt was heedless of these; and striking a
drift path that crossed the hills, he followed its trend. Along it
he walked--nay, raced rather, like a man pursued. And pursued he
was; for he sought in vain to escape the passions that preyed on
him, tormenting him. Sorrow, anguish, death; these were at his
heels; and, worse than all, he thought his dying wife was
following him, pleading for his return. Why had he forsaken her?
Was it not cowardice--the cowardice and selfishness of his grief?
Once or twice a fascination took hold of him, and, despite the
terror that awed him, he threw a glance over his shoulder to see
if after all he were pursued by the shadow he so much feared to
meet. Then the wind began to utter strange sounds--wailings and
lamentations--its burden being a wild entreaty to return; and once
he thought he heard an infant's cry, and he paused in his despair.
A steep and rugged path lay before him--a path that led under
trees whose swaying branches flung off raindrops in blinding
showers, and a gleam of light shot shaft-like from a rift in the
sombre clouds, and falling across his feet, led him to wonder how
heaven could shed a fitful smile on sorrow like his own.
Familiar with the moods of nature, he deemed the hour to be that
of noon; nor was he mistaken, for the sky began to clear, and with
the light came the return to a calmer mind. He now, for the first
time, realized the folly--probably the disaster--of his flight.
Might he not be needed at the cottage? Was not his dying wife's
prayer for his presence and succour? Had not an unmanly
selfishness led him to play the coward? Thoughts like these led
him to marshal his resolves, and turn his steps towards the valley
below.
No sooner did he do this than a strong self-possession came to
him, and swift was his return. The clouds were now parting, and as
they chased one another towards the distant horizon, the sun--the
watery November sun--shone out in silver upon the great stretch of
moorland, and lit it up like a sea of light. Little globes of
crystal glistened on the hedgerows, and many-coloured raindrops
glowed like jewelled points on the blades of green that lay about
his feet. A great arch of sevenfold radiance spanned the valley,
based on either side from the twin slopes, and reaching with its
crown to the summit of the skies. It was now a passage from Hebrew
tradition came to his mind, and he thought of him of whom the poet
wrote, 'and as he passed over Penuel, the sun rose upon him.'