Chapter 13

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.'

'And did she strike you as she struck the tackler?' asked Mr. Penrose.

'Did hoo strike me--? Nowe; hoo turned t'other cheek and geet a better and longer kuss nor th' first.'

'So that is how Malachi won you, is it, Betty? The story is worth a chapter in a novel.'

'Nay, aw wernd so easily won as that, Mr. Penrose. There were summat else i' th' way, and aw welly thought once he'd ha' lost me.'

'And what was that?'

'Well, yo' see,' said Malachi, 'Betty were a dipper, an' I were a sprinkler. And when I axed th' old mon for Betty he said as dippin' and sprinklin' wouldn't piece up. And then hoo were a Calvin an' I were a Methody, and that were wur and wur.

'Th' owd mon stood to his gun, and wouldn't say "Yez" till I gave in; an' aw stood to mi gun, and to Betty an' o', an' towd her faither 'at aw were as good as ony on 'em. One day th' lass come to me wi' tears in her een, and said:

'"Malachi, didsto ever read Solomon's Song?"

'"Yi, forsure aw did. Why doesto ax me that question?"

'"Doesto remember th' seventh verse o' th' last chapter?" hoo said.

'"Aw cannot say as 'ow I do. What is it?"

'"It's that," said hoo, puttin' her little Bible i' my hand.

'And when I tuk it aw read, "Many waters cannot quench love."

'"Well," aw sez, "what abaat that?"

'"Why," hoo cried, "thaa'rt lettin' Rehoboth waters quench thine."

'"Haa doesto mean?" aw axed.

'"Why, thaa willn't be dipped for me."'

Here Mr. Penrose broke into a hearty laugh, and complimented Betty, telling her she was the sort of woman to make 'converts to the cause.' Then old Malachi put on his wisest look, and continued:

'Mr. Penrose, aw mut as weel tell yo' afore yo' get wed, that it's no use feightin' agen a woman. They're like Bill o' th' Goit's donkey, they'll goa their own gate, an' th' more yo' bother wi' 'em th' wur they are. A mon's wife mak's him. Hoo shap's everythin' for him, his clooas, his gate, and his religion an' o'. Talk abaat clay i' th' honds o' th' potter, why it's naught to a man i' th' honds o' his missus.'

'So you were baptized for the love of Betty, were you, Malachi?'

'Yi; bud I were no hypocrite abaat it, for aw told her aw should never be a Calvin, an' aw never have bin. Doesto remember what thaa said, Betty, when aw tell'd thee aw should never be a Calvin?'

'Nay, aw forget, lad; it's so long sin'.'

'Bud aw haven't forgetten. Thaa said, "Never mind, thaa's no need to tell mi faither that; thaa can keep it to thisel." Aw'll tell yo' what, Mr. Penrose, a woman's as deep as th' Longridge pit shaft.'

'Well, thaa's never rued o'er joinin' Rehoboth, Malachi.'

'I've never rued o'er weddin' thee, lass; an' aw think if thaa'd gone to a wur place nor Rehoboth aw should ha' followed thee. Leastways, I shouldn't ha' liked thee to 'a' tempted me.'

'But thaa's not tell'd him all, Malachi.'

'Nowe, lass, aw hevn't, but aw will. Have yo' seen yon rose-tree that grows under the winder--that tree that is welly full durin' th' season?'

The minister nodded.

'Well, when aw fetched her fro' her faither, hoo said aw mun tak a flaar an' o', as aw coomd for one on th' neet as aw geet her. So aw took one o' th' owd felley's rose-trees, an' planted it under aar winder theer, and theer it's stood for nigh on forty year, come blow, come snow, come sun, come shade, an' the roses are still as fresh an' sweet as ever. An' so art thaa, owd lass,' and Malachi got up and kissed into bloom the faded, yet healthy, cheek of Betty, his conquest of whom he had just narrated to Mr. Penrose, and whom he still so dearly loved.

VIII.

MR. PENROSE BRINGS HOME A BRIDE.

When Rehoboth heard of the coming marriage of Mr. Penrose many were its speculations on the woman he was taking for wife. Amos Entwistle said 'he'd be bun for't that th' lass wouldn't be baat brass noather in her pocket nor in her face'; to which old Enoch's wife replied that 'hoo'd need both i' Rehoboth, where they fed th' parson on scaplins (stone chippings), and teed his tung with deacons' resolutions.'

Milly wondered 'if th' lass 'ud be pratty,' and 'what colour her een 'ud be'; while old Joseph declared 'hoo'd be mighty high-minded, but that hoo were comin' to wheer hoo'd be takken daan a bit.'

The most philosophic judgment was that of Malachi o' th' Mount, who, turning on Amos one evening in the chapel yard, said:

'Look here, owd lad; it were yor pleasure to stop single; it were mine to get wed. We both on us pleeased aarsels; let th' parson do th' same. He'll noan ax thee to live wi' th' lass; he'll live wi' her hissel. Then let him pleease hissel.'

One or two of the women vexed themselves as to whether she would be a Martha or a Mary; and when Deborah Heap was appealed to she said, 'Let's hope hoo'll be a bit o' both.'

Old Joseph, overhearing this last remark, injected his venom by hinting that 'no doubt hoo'd be a Mary, but that th' maister at whose feet hoo'd sit would be a different sort to Him as went to Bethany.'

Then it was Abraham Lord's wife suggested that Joseph should 'find th' parson a pair o' wings, so as he might mate hissel wi' a angel, for she was sure naught less 'ud suit Rehoboth fo'k.' And Oliver o' Deaf Martha's wife climaxed the discussion by saying, 'if that were bein' a parson's wife, hoo'd rather be where hoo were, although their Oliver did tak' drink and ooine (punish) her.'

'I'll tell thee what, lad,' said Mrs. Lord to her husband on the night of the chapel yard conclave--'I'll tell thee what. I feel fair grieved for that lass th' parson's wed. They'n mad' up their minds they'll never tak' to her; and there's no changin' th' mind o' Rehoboth.'

'But we'll tak' to her, mother,' cried Milly, crossing, with her crutch, from the window at which she had been sitting, to take her place at her mother's side. 'We'll tak' to her; aw con luv onybody 'at Mr. Penrose luves.'

'Bless thee, lass! aw beleeve thaa con. An' we will tak' to her, as thaa sez. Fancy thee leavin' me to get wed, an' livin' i' a strange place, and all th' fo'k set agen thee afore they see thee! It mak's mi heart fair wark (ache).'

'But thaa knows, misses, hoo'll happen not tak' to thee an' Milly. Hoo'll happen be a bit aboon yo'--high-minded like.'

'Hoo'll tak' to Milly if hoo's takken to Mr. Penrose, lad; thaa'll see if hoo doesn't. Didn't he read a bit aat o' one o' her letters where hoo said hoo were fain longin' to see Milly becose hoo liked th' flaars an' stars an' sich like?'

'Yi; he did forsure.'

'Aw know hoo'll tak' to me, mother. An' if hoo doesn't, I'll mak' her, that's all.'

'Aw don't somehaa think 'at Mr. Penrose ud wed a praad woman, Abram. Do yo'?'

'I durnd think he would, lass. Bud then th' best o' men mak' mistakes o'er th' women they wed.'

'Yi; they say luv's gawmless; but aw welly think Mr. Penrose knows what he's abaat.'

'Th' Lord help him, if he doesn't! They say a mon hes to ax his wife if he's to live.'

'Aw yerd Amos say t'other day, faither, that a chap hed to live thirty year wi' a woman afore he know'd he were wed.'

'Did th' owd powse say that, lass?' cried Milly's mother. 'I nobbud wish I'd yerd him. He's lived more nor thirty year baat one, an' a bonny speciment he is. Bud it's a gradely job for th' woman 'at missed him. He were welly weddin' Malachi o' th' Mount's wife once over.'

'Yi; hoo'd a lucky miss, an' no mistak'. But happen hoo'd ha' snapped him.'

'Never, lad. There's some felleys that no woman can shap', and Amos is one o' em.'

'Aw towd him, faither, that yo' know'd yo' were wed, and yo'd nobbud been agate seventeen year.'

'An' what did he say to that, Milly?' asked her mother.

'Why, he towd me aw know'd too mich.'

And at this both Abraham and his wife joined in hearty laughter.

'When does Penrose bring his wife to Rehoboth, missis?'

'Saturday neet. We's see her for th' fust time o' Sunday mornin'. Hoo's baan to sit wi' Dr. Hale.'

'There'll be some een on her, aw bet,' said Abraham.

'Wernd there, just. Poor lass! I could fair cry for her when aw think abaat it. An' away fro' her mother, an' o'.'

'But then hoo'll hev her husband, wernd hoo?' asked Milly.

'For sure hoo will; bud he'll be i' th' pulpit, and not agen her to keep her fro' bein' 'onely like.'

'Ey, mother, aw sometimes think it must be a grand thing for a woman to see her felley in a pulpit.'

'Don't thee go soft on parsons, lass,' said her father.

* * * * *

If there had been no other welcome to the minister's wife on her Sabbath advent at Rehoboth, there was the welcome of Nature--the welcome born of the bridal hour of morn with moorland, when the awakening day bends over, and clasps with its glory the underlying and far-reaching hills. From out a cloudless sky--save where wreaths of vapour fringed the rounding blue--the sun put forth his golden arms towards the heathery sweeps that lay with their rounded bosoms greedy for his embrace, and gave himself in wantonness to his bride, kissing her fair face into blushing loveliness, and calling forth from the womb of the morning a myriad forms of life. Earth lay breathless in the clasp of heaven--they twain were one, perfect in union, and in spirit undivided. Rehoboth was seductive with a sweetness known only to the nuptials of Nature in a morning of sunshine on the moors.

It wanted two hours before service, and the young wife was wandering among the flowers of the garden of the manse that was to be her home, her spouse seated at his study window intent on the manuscript of his morning's discourse. Intent? Nay, for his eye often wandered from the underscored pages to the girl-wife who glided with merry heart and lithe footstep from flower to flower, her skirts wet as she swept the dew-jewels that glistened on the lawn and borders of the gay parterres. She, poor girl! supposing herself unwatched, drank deeply of the morning gladness, her joyous step now and again falling into the rhythmic movements of a dance. She even found herself humming airs that were not sacred--airs forbidden even on weekdays in the puritanic precincts of Rehoboth--airs she had learned in the distant city once her home. Was she not happy? and does not happiness voice itself in song? And is not the song of the happy always sacred--and sacred even on the most sacred of days?

Alas! alas! little did the young wife know the puritanic mood of Rehoboth. Behind the privet hedge fencing off the paradise, on this good Sunday morning, lurked Amos Entwistle.

The old man, hearing the voice on his way to Sunday-school, stopped, and, peeping through the fence, saw what confirmed his bitterest prejudices against the woman whom Mr. Penrose had married; and before a half-hour was passed every teacher and scholar in Rehoboth school was told that 'th' parson bed wed a doncin' lass fro' a theyater.'

Standing in his desk before the first hymn was announced, Amos cried in loud tones:

'Aw seed her mysel donce i' th' garden, on God's good Sunday morn. I seed her donce like that brazened (impudent) wench did afore King Herod, him up i' his study-winder skennin' at her when he ought to ha' bin sayin' o' his prayers. An' aw yerd her sing some mak' o' stuff abaat luv, and sich like rubbidge. What sort o' a wife dun yo' co that? G' me a lass as can strike up _Hepzibah_, and mak' a prayer. It's all o' a piece--short weight i' doctrin', and falderdals i' wives.'