cottage door. Was it the house of life, or the house of death?--or
was it the house where death and life alike were victorious? He
paused, and felt the blood flow back to its central seat, while
his bones began to shake, and his heart was poured out like water.
But the battle was won, though the struggle was not over, and he
pressed on towards his home.
The first thing he saw on entering the door was Dr. Hale seated
before a cup of steaming tea, with a great weariness in his eye,
who, when he saw Matt, threw a look of rebuke, and in somewhat
stern tones said:
'You can go upstairs, Matt, if you like; it's all over.'
With a spasm in his throat Matt was about to ask what it was that
was all over; but he was forestalled by old Malachi's wife, who,
pushing her head through the staircase doorway into the room,
cried:
'It's a lad, Matt, and a fine un an' o'!'
'Hang th' lad!' cried Matt; 'how's Miriam?'
'Come and see for thisel; hoo's bin waitin' for thee this hawve
haar.'
With a bound or two Matt cleared the stairway and stood by the
side of Miriam.
There she lay, poor girl! limp and exhausted, wrapped in her old
gown like a mummy, her long, wet hair, which was scattered in
tresses on the pillow, throwing, in its dark frame, her face into
still greater pallor.
'Thaa munnot speak, Miriam,' said the nurse in a low tone. 'If
thaa moves tha'll dee. Thaa can kiss her, Matt; but that's all.'
Matt kissed his wife, and baptized her with his warm tears.
'And hesn't thaa getten a word for th' child, Matt?' cried old
Deborah, who sat with a pulpy form upon her knees before the fire.
'It's thy lad and no mistak'; it favours no one but thisel. Look
at its yure (hair), bless it!' And old Deborah stooped over it and
wept. Wept--which she had never done since her girlhood's days.
But Matt's eyes were fixed on Miriam, until she, breaking through
the orders of the doctor, said:
'Matt, do look at th' baby--it's thine, thaa knows.'
And then Matt looked at the baby. For the first time in his life
he looked at a new-born baby, and at a baby to whom he was linked
by ties of paternity, and his heart went out towards the little
palpitating prophecy of life--so long expected, and perfected at
such a price. And he took it in his arms, while old Deborah said:
'Thaa sees, lad, God's not forgetten to be gracious. Th' promise
is still to us and aars.'
But Malachi's wife sent Matt downstairs, saying:
'We'n had enugh preachin' and cryin'. Go and ged on wi' thi wark.
Th' lass is on th' mend, and hoo'll do gradely weel.'
IV.
THE LEAD OF THE LITTLE ONE.
The child grew, and its first conquest was the heart of old
Deborah. Before the little life she bowed, and what her
Calvinistic creed was weak to do for her, a love for her grandson
accomplished. Often and long would she look into his face as he
lay in her arms, until at last she, too, caught the child-feature
and the child-smile. Rehoboth said old Deborah was renewing her
youth; for she had been known to laugh and croon, and more than
once purse up her old lips to sing a snatch of nursery rhyme--a
thing which in the past she had denounced as tending to 'mak'
childer hush't wi' th' songs o' sin.' The hard look died away from
her eyes, and her mouth ceased to wear its sealed and drawn
expression. The voice, too, became low and mellow, and her
religion, instead of being that of the Church, was now that of the
home.
One morning, while carrying the child through the meadows, she was
overtaken by Amos Entwistle, who stopped her, saying:
'Tak' care, Deborah, tak' care, or the Almeety will overthrow thi
idol. Thaa'rt settin' thi affections on things o' th' earth; and
He'll punish thee for it.'
'An' do yo' co this babby one o' th' things o' th' earth?' cried
the old woman fiercely.
'Yi, forsure I do. What else mut it be?'
'Look yo' here, Amos,' said Deborah, raising the child in her arms
so that her rebuker might look into its little features, ruddy and
reposeful--features where God's fresh touch still lingered; 'luk
yo' here. Han yo' never yerd that childer's angels awlus behold
th' face o' their Faither aboon?'
'Eh! Deborah, lass, aw never thought as Mr. Penrose ud turn thi
yed and o'. Theer's a fearful few faithful ones laft i' Zion
naa-a-days. Bud aw tell thee, th' Lord'll smite thi idol, and
it'll be thro' great tribulation that tha'll enter th' Kingdom.'
'I'd ha' yo' to know, Amos Entwistle, that I'm noan in yor
catechism class, an' I'm noan baan to be. Yo' can tak' an' praitch
yor rubbidge somewheer else. Yo've no occasion to come to me, I
con tell yo'.' And then, looking down at the reposeful little
face, she kissed it, and continued, 'Did he co thee an idol, my
darlin'? Ne'er heed him, owd powse ud he is!'
Before nightfall Deborah's encounter with Amos was the talk of
Rehoboth, and it was freely reported that the old woman had become
an infidel. Whether the cause of her infidelity resulted from Mr.
Penrose's preaching or the advent of her grandchild was a disputed
point. Old Amos declared, however, 'that there were a bit o' both
in it, but he feared th' chilt more than th' parson.'
Deborah's first great spiritual conflict--as they called it in
Rehoboth--was when her grandchild cut its first teeth. The eye of
the grandmother had been quick to note a dulness and sleepiness in
the baby--strange to a child of so lively and observant a
turn--and judging that the incisors were parting the gums, she
wore her finger sore with rubbing the swollen integuments.
One morning, as she was continuing these operations, she felt the
child stiffen on her knee, and looking, saw the little eyes glide
and roll as though drawn by a power foreign to the will. A
neighbour, who was hastily called, declared it to be convulsions,
and for some hours the little life hung in the balance. It was
during these hours that Deborah fought her first and only great
fight with Him whom she had been taught to address as 'th'
Almeety.'
Ever since her conflict with Amos, she could not free her mind
from superstitious thoughts about 'the idol.' Did she love the
child overmuch, and would her over-love be punished by the child's
death? She had heard and read of this penalty which the Almighty
imposed upon those who loved the creature more than the Creator;
and she, poor soul, to hinder this, had tried to love both the
Giver and the gift. Nay, did she not love the Giver all the more,
because she loved the gift so much? This was the question that
vexed her. Why had God given her something to love if He did not
mean her to love it?--and could she love too much what God had
given? Once she put this question to Mr. Penrose, and his reply
lived in her mind: 'If there is no limit to God's love of us, why
should we fear to love one another too dearly or too well?' But
now the test had come. The child was in danger; a shadow fell on
the idol. Was it the shadow of an angry God--a God insulted by a
divided love?
It was in the torturing hold of questions such as these that she
once more met Amos, who, laying the flattering unction to his soul
that he could forgive his enemies, struck a stab straight at her
heart by saying:
'Well, Deborah, th' chilt's dying, I yer. I towd thee he would.
Th' Almeety goes hawves wi' no one. He'll hev all or noan.'
'What! doesto mak' aat He's as selfish as thisel, Amos? Nay, I mun
hev a better God nor thee.'
'Well, a' tell thee, He's baan to tak' th' lad, so thaa mut as
weel bow to His will. Them as He doesn't bend He breaks.'
'Then He'll hev to break me, Amos; for aw shall never bend, aw con
tell thee.' And the old woman stiffened herself, as though in
defiance of the Providence which Amos preached.
'Why, Deborah, thaa'rt wur nor a potsherd. Thaa knows thi Bible:
"Let the potsherds strive wi' th' potsherds; but woe to th' mon
that strives wi' his Maker."'
'Well, I'm baan to wrostle wi' Him, an' if He flings me aw shannot
ax yo' to pick me up, noather.'
'Thaa mun say, "Thy will be done," Deborah.'
'Nowe! never to th' deeath o' yon chilt.'
'Doesto say thaa willn't?'
'Yi, Amos, aw do!'
Then Amos turned away, groaning in spirit at the rebellious hearts
of the children of men.
The child came safely through the convulsions, however, and as the
sharp edges of the little teeth gleamed through the gums, the old
woman would rub her finger over them until she felt the smart, and
with tearful eye thank God for the gift He had spared, as well as
for the gift He had granted--little dreaming that as she nursed
her treasure she nursed also her mentor--one who, though in the
feebleness of infancy, was drawing her back to a long-lost
childhood, and bidding return to her the days of youth.
The old grandmother now became the light of Matt and Miriam's
home. Instead of paying the occasional visit at her house, she was
ever at theirs--indeed, she could not rest away from the child.
Miriam long since had ceased to fear her. 'The little un,' as she
used to tell Matt, 'had drawed th' owd woman's teeth;' to which
Matt used to reply, 'Naa, lass, the teeth's there, but hoo's gi'en
o'er bitin'.'
Not infrequently, both son and daughter would rally her on the
many indulgences she granted the child, and Matt often told her
that what 'he used to ged licked for, th' chilt geet kissed for.'
Mr. Penrose, too, ventured to discuss theology with Matt in the
old woman's presence, and she no longer eyed him with angry fire
as he discoursed from the Rehoboth pulpit on the larger hope. As
for Amos Entwistle, he continued to prophesy the death of the
child, and when it still lived and throve, in spite of his
prediction, he contented himself by saying that 'Deborah hed
turned the Owd Testament blessin' into a curse.'
* * * * *
On Sunday afternoons Matt and Miriam would leave the boy at his
grandmother's while they went to the service at Rehoboth. Then it
was the old woman took down the family Bible, and showed to him
the plates representative of the marvels of old. These began to
work on the child's imagination; and once, when the book lay open
at Revelation, he fastened his little eyes on a hideous
representation of the bottomless pit.
'What's that, gronny?' said he, pointing to the picture.
'That, mi lad, is th' hoile where all th' bad fo'k go.'
'Who dug it? Did owd Joseph, gronny?'
'Nowe, lad; owd Joseph nobbud digs hoiles for fo'k's bodies. That
hoile is fer their souls.'
'What's them, gronny?'
'Nay, lad! A connot tell thee reet--but it's summat abaat us as we
carry wi' us--summat, thaa knows, that never dees.'
'And why do they put it in a hoile, gronny? Is it to mak' it
better?'
'Nay, lad; they put it i' th' hoile because it's noan good.'
'Then it's summat like mi dad when I'm naughty, an' he says he'll
put me i' th' cellar hoile.'
'But he never does--does he, lad?' asked the grandmother
anxiously.
'Nowe, gronny. He nobbud sez he will.' And then, after a pause, he
continued, 'But, gronny, if God sez He'll put 'em in He'll do as
He sez--willn't He?'
'Yi, lad; He will, forsure.'
'An' haa long does He keep 'em in when He gets 'em theer? Till
to-morn t'neet?'
'Longer lad.'
'Till Kesmas?'
'Yi, lad.'
'Longer nor Kesmas?'
'Yi, lad. But ne'er heed. Here's summat to eat. Sithee, I baked
thee a pasty.'
'I noan want th' pasty, gronny. I want to yer abaat th' hoile. Haa
long does God keep bad fo'k in it?'
'Ey, lad. I wish thaa'd hooisht! What doesto want botherin' thi
little yed wi' such like talk?'
'Haa long does He keep 'em i' th' hoile?' persistently asked the
boy.
'Well, if thaa mun know, He keeps 'em in for ever.'
'An' haa long's that, gronny? Is it as long as thee?'
'As long as me, lad! Whatever doesto mean?'
'I mean is forever as long as thaa'rt owd? Haa owd arto, gronny?'
'I'm sixty-five, lad.'
'Well, does He keep 'em i' the hoile sixty-five years?'
'Yi, lad. He does, forsure. But thi faither never puts thee i' th'
cellar hoile when thaa's naughty, does he?'
'Nowe. I tell thee he nobbud sez he will,'
'By Guy, lad! If ever he puts thee i' th' cellar hoile--whether
thaa'rt naughty or not--thaa mun tell me, and I'll lug his yed for
him.' And the old woman became indignant in her mien.
'But if God puts fo'k i' th' hoile, why shuldn't mi faither put me
i' th' hoile? It's reet to do as God does--isn't it, gronny?'
'Whatever wilto ax me next, lad?' cried the worn-out and perplexed
old woman. 'Come, shut up th' Bible, and eat thi pasty.'
But the little fellow's appetite was gone, and as he fell asleep
on the settle his slumber was fitful, for dark dreams disturbed
him--he had felt the first awful shadow of a dogmatic faith.
Nor was old Deborah less disturbed. Sitting by the fire, with one
eye on the child and the other on her Bible, the gloomy shadows of
a shortening day creeping around her, she, too, with her mind's
eye, saw the regions of woe--the flaming deeps where hope comes
never. What if that were her grandchild's doom!--her grandchild,
whose father she would smite if even for a moment he shut his
little son up in the cellar of his home! How her heart loathed the
passion, the cruelty, that would wreak such an act! And yet He
whom she called God had reserved blackness and darkness for ever
for the disobedient and rebellious.
Horror took hold of her, and the sweat moistened her brow. The
firelight played on the curls of the sleeping boy, and she started
as she thought of that other fire that was never quenched, and she
rose and shook her clenched hand at heaven as the possibility of
the singeing of a single hair of the child passed through her
mind.
For a time Deborah stood alone, without a God, the faith in which
she had been trained, and in which she had sheltered in righteous
security, shrinking into space until she found herself in the void
of a darkness more terrible than that of the pit which she had
been speaking of to the child. She saw how that hitherto she had
only believed she believed, and that now, when her soul was
touched in its nether deeps, she had never believed at all in the
creed which she had fought for and upheld with such bitterness.
There, in the twilight of that Sabbath evening, she uttered what,
to Rehoboth, would have been a terrible renunciation, just as a
lurid beam shot its level fire across the moors, and as the sun
went down, leaving her in the horror of a great darkness.
And then, in the gathering gloom, was heard the voice of the child
calling:
'Gronny! Gronny!'
'Well, mi lad, what is't?'
'Gronny, I don't believe i' th' hoile.'
'Bless thee, my darlin'--no more do I.'
'I durnd think as God ud send me where yo' an' mi dad wouldn't let
me go--would He, gronny?'
'Nowe, lad, He wouldn't, forsure.'
And then, lighting the lamp, and turning with the old superstition
to her Bible to see what the law and the testimony had to say as
she opened it at random, her eyes fell on the words: 'If ye, then,
being evil, know how to give good gifts unto your children, how
much more shall your Father which is in heaven give good things to
them that ask Him.'
That afternoon, when Matt and Miriam returned from Rehoboth, they
found old Deborah less than the little child she watched over; for
she, too, had not only become as a little child, but, as she said,
least among the little ones.
VII.
HOW MALACHI O' TH' MOUNT WON HIS WIFE.
'So yo' want to know haa aw geet hand o' my missus, dun yo', Mr.
Penrose? Well, if hoo'll nobbud be quiet while aw'm abaat it,
aw'll tell yo'.'
And so saying, Malachi drew his chair to the fire, and blew a
cloud of tobacco-smoke towards the rows of oat-cakes that hung on
the brade fleygh over his head.
'It's forty year sin' I furst wore shoe-leather i' Rehoboth, Mr.
Penrose.'
'Nay, lad, it's noan forty year whol Candlemas. It were February,
thaa knows, when thaa come; and it's nobbud October yet. An' thaa
didn't wear shoon noather, thaa wore clogs--clogs as big as boats,
Mr. Penrose; an' they co'd him Clitter-clatter for a nickname.
Hasto forgetten, Malachi?'
'Aw wish thaa wouldn't be so plaguey partic'lar, lass, an' let a
felley get on wi' his tale,' said Malachi to his wife. And then,
turning to Mr. Penrose, he continued: 'Aw were tryin' to say as it
were forty year sin' I come to Rehoboth.'
'Forty year come Candlemas, Malachi.'
'Yi, forty year come Candlemas. Aw were bred and born aboon
Padiham, an' aw come to th' Brig Factory as cut-looker, an' never
laft th' job till aw went to weighin' coil on th' pit bonk.'
'All but that eighteen month thaa were away i' Yorksur, when th'
cotton panic were on, thaa knows, lad.'
'Yi, lass, aw know. Naa let me ged on wi' mi tale. Well, as aw
were sayin', Mr. Penrose, I come in these parts as cut-looker at
th' Brig Factory, and th' fust lass as brought her piece to me
were Betty yonder.'
'Thaa'rt wrang agen, Malachi. Th' fust lass as brought her piece
to thee were Julia Smith. Aw remember as haa hoo went in afore me,
as though it were nobbud yester morn.'
'Well, never mind, thaa wur t' fust I seed, an' that's near enugh,
isn't it, Mr. Penrose?'
The minister nodded, and smiled at old Betty, who so jealously
followed the story of her husband's early life.
'Well, when hoo put her piece daan afore me, I couldn't tak' mi
een off her. Aw were fair gloppent (taken by surprise), an' aw did
naught but ston' an' stare at her.
'"What arto starin' at?" hoo said, flushin' up to her yure (hair).
'"At yo'," I said, as gawmless as a nicked goose.
'"Then thaa'd better use thi een for what th'art paid for, an'
look at them pieces i'stead o' lookin' at lasses' faces."
'And hoo walked aat o' th' warehaase like a queaan. An' dun yo'
remember, Betty, haa th' young gaffer laffed at me, an' said as aw
could noan play wi' th' likes o' yo'?'
'Yi, aw remember, Malachi; but ged on wi' yor tale. Mr. Penrose
here is fair plagued.'
'Indeed, I'm not. Go on, Malachi. Take your own time, and tell
your story in your own fashion.'
'Aw will, Mr. Penrose, if hoo'll nobbud let me. Betty were a
four-loom weyver; and i' those days there wernd so many lasses as
could tackle th' job. An' th' few that could were awlus piked up
pratty quick for wives--for them as married 'em had no need to
work theirsels, and had lots o' time on their hands for laking
(playing) and such-like. Bud that wernd th' reason aw made up to
Betty. It wernd th' looms that fetched me; it were her een.
There's some breetness in 'em yet; bud yo' should ha' sin 'em
forty years sin'! They leeted up her bonnie cheeks like dewdrops
i' roses; an' noabry 'at looked i' them could see ought wrang i'
'em.'
'Malachi, if thaa doesn't hold thi tung I'll smoor (smother) thee
wi' this stockin'. Thaa'rt as soft as when thaa were a lad;' and
the old woman held up the article of clothing that she was darning
in her hand, and shook it in a threatening manner at her eloquent
spouse.
'In a bit, Mr. Penrose, I geet as I couldn't for shame to look
into Betty's een at all; an' then aw took to blushin' every time
hoo come i' th' warehouse wi' her pieces, an' when hoo spoke, aw
trembled all o'er like a barrow full o' size. One day hoo'd a
float in her piece, and aw couldn't find it i' mi heart to bate
her. And when th' manager fun it aat, he said if I'd gone soft
o'er Betty, it were no reason why aw should go soft o'er mi wark,
and he towd me to do mi courtin' i' th' fields and not i' th'
factory. But it were yeasier said nor done, aw can tell yo', for
Betty were a shy un, and bided a deal o' gettin' at.
'There used to be a dur (door) leadin' aat o' th' owd warehaase
into th' weyvin' shed, an' one day aw get a gimlik an' bored a
hoile so as aw could peep thro' an' see Betty at her wark. It
wernd so often as aw'd a chance, bud whenever th' manager's back
were turned, an' aw were alone, I were noan slow to tak' my
chance. It were wheer I could just see Betty at her looms. Bless
thee, lass, aw think aw can see thee naa, bendin' o'er thi looms
wi' a neck as praad as a swan's, thi fingers almost as nimble as
th' shuttle, an' that voice o' thine treblin' like a brid!'
'Do ged on wi' yor tale, Malachi; what does Mr. Penrose want to
know abaat lasses o' forty year sin'? He's geddin' one o' his
own--and that's enough for him, aw'm sure.'
'Aw nobbud want him to know that there were bonnie lasses i' aar
time as well as i' his--that were all, Betty.'
'Well, ged on wi' yo', an' durnd be so long abaat it, Malachi.'
'One day, Mr. Penrose, as aw were peepin' through th' hoile i' th'
warehaase dur at Betty, aw could see that there were summat wrong
wi' one o' th' warps, for hoo were reachin' and sweatin' o'er th'
loom, an' th' tackler were stannin' at her side, an' a deal too
near and o' for my likin', aw con tell yo'.
'Just as hoo were stretchin' her arm, and bendin' her shoulders to
get owd o' th' ends, the tackler up wi' his an' clips her raand
th' waist.
'Well, hoo were up like a flesh o' greased leetnin', and fetched
him a smack o'er th' face as made him turn the colour o' taller
candles. Yo' remember that, Betty, durnd yo'?
'Yi! aw remember that, Malachi,' said the old woman, proudly
recalling the days of her youthful prowess; 'there were no man 'at
ever insulted me twice.'
'When aw see th' tackler put his arm raand Betty, I were through
th' dur and down th' alley wi' a hop, skip and jump, and hed him
on th' floor before yo' could caant twice two. We rowl'd o'er
together, for he were a bigger mon nor me, an' I geet my yed
jowled agen th' frame o' th' loom. But I were no white-plucked un,
an' aw made for him as if aw meant it. He were one too mony,
however, for he up wi' his screw-key and laid mi yed open, an'
I've carried this mark ever sin'.' And the old man pointed to a
scar, long since healed, in his forehead. 'Then they poo'd us
apart, an' said we mutn't feight among th' machinery, so we geet
up an' agreed to feight it aat i' th' Far Holme meadow that neet,
an' we did. We fought for over hawve an haar, summat like fifteen
raands, punsin' and o' (kicking with clogs). As aw told yo', he
were th' bigger mon; bud then aw hed a bit o' science o' mi side,
an' I were feytin' for th' lass aw luved, an' when he come up for
th' fifteenth time, I let drive atween his een, and he never seed
dayleet for a fortnit.'
'An' thaa were some stiff when it were all o'er, Malachi,' said
Betty.
'Yo're reet, lass! Aw limped for more nor a week, but aw geet
thee, an' aw meant it, if aw'd had to feight fifteen raands
more--'
'So, like the knights of olden time, Malachi, you fought for your
fair lady and won her.'
'Nay, Mr. Penrose, you morn'd think he nobbud won me wi' a feight;
he'd summat else to do for me beside that. Aw noan put mysel up
for a boxin' match, aw con tell yo'.'
'Nowe, Mr. Penrose, th' feight were nobbud th' start like. It were
sometime afore th' job were settled. Yo' see, I were a shy sort o'
a chap and back'ard like at comin' for'ard. One day, haaever,
Molly o' th' Long Shay come up to me when th' factory were losin',
and hoo said, "Malachi, arto baan to let Amos Entwistle wed that
lass o' Cronshaw's? for if thaa art thaa'rt a foo' (fool). Thaa'rt
fond o' her, and hoo's fond o' thee. If hoo's too praad to ax thee
to be her husband hoo's noan too praad to say 'Yea' if tha'll
nobbud ax her to be thi wife."
'Molly o' Long Shay were noan sich a beauty, bud aw felt as aw
could aw liked to ha' kuss'd her that day, an' no mistak'.
'"Ey, Molly," aw said, "if aw thought thaa spok' truth, aw'd see
Betty to-neet."
'"See her, mon," hoo said, "an' get th' job sattled."
'Well, yo' mun know, Mr. Penrose, that Betty's faither were fond
o' rootin' i' plants, an' as aw'd a turn that way mysel I thought
aw'd just walk up as far as his haase, and buy a twothree, and try
and hev a word wi' Betty i' th' bargain. So aw weshed mysel, and
donned mi Sunday best, and went up.
'When aw geet theer, Betty were i' th' garden by hersel, as her
faither were gone to a deacons' meetin' at Rehoboth.
'"What arto doin' up here, Malachi?" hoo sez.
'"I've nobbud come up to see thi faither abaat some flaars," aw
stuttered.
'"He'll noan be up for an hour or two yet," hoo said. "He's gone
to Rehoboth. Is it a flaar as aw con get for thee?"
'"Yi!" aw sez, "yo' con get me th' flaar aw want."
'"Which is it?" said hoo. "Is it one o' those lilies mi faither
geet fro' th' hall?"
'"Nowe," aw said; "it didn't come fro' th' hall; it awlus grow'd
here."
'"Well, if thaa'll tell me which it is, thaa shall hev it; where
abaats is it?"
'Mr. Penrose, did yo' ever try an' shap' your mouth to tell a lass
as yo' luved hir?'
Mr. Penrose remained silent.
'Well, if ever yo' did, then yo' know haa aw felt when hoo axed me
where th' flaar were as aw wanted. Aw couldn't for shame to tell
her. Then hoo turned on me an' said:
'"If thaa'll tell me where the flaar is I'll give it thee, but
don't stand grinnin' theer."
'Then aw plucked up like. Aw said: "Aw think thaa knows where th'
flaar is, Betty. An' as thaa said I mun hev it, I'll tak' it." And
I gave her a kuss on th' cheek 'at were nearest to me.'