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Lancashire Idylls (1898) by Marshall Mather

M >> Marshall Mather >> Lancashire Idylls (1898)




'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.'

And as Amos finished the delivery of this sentiment, and held the
open hymn-book in his hand, he reached over to administer a blow
on the ears of a child who was peeping through the window at a
little bird trilling joyously on the deep-splayed sill outside.

During the pause between the close of Sunday-school and the
commencement of morning service, congregation and scholars
darkened the chapel yard in gossiping groups, each on the tiptoe
of curiosity to catch a first glimpse of the bride of their
pastor. All eyes were turned towards the crown of the hill which
led up from the manse, and on which Mr. Penrose and his wife would
first be seen. More than once an approaching couple were mistaken
for them, and more than once disappointment darkened the faces of
the waiting folk. With some of the older members weariness
overcame curiosity, and they entered the doors, through which came
the sound of instruments in process of tuning, while Amos
Entwistle, cuffing and driving the younger scholars into the
chapel, upbraided the elder ones by asking them 'if th' parson
were the only chap as hed ever getten wed?'

At last the well-known form of the preacher was silhouetted on the
brow of the hill, and by his side the wife whose advent had
created such a prejudice and distaste, unknown though she was,
among these moorland folks. The murmur of announcement ran round,
and within, as well as without, all knew 'th' parson's wife wor
amang 'em.'

As the couple entered the chapel yard the people made way,
ungraciously somewhat, and shot the young bride through and
through with cruel stares. Mr. Penrose greeted his congregation
with a succession of nervous nods, jerky and strained, his wife
keeping her eyes fixed on the gravestones over which she was led
to the chapel doors.

'Sithee! hoo's getten her yers pierced,' said a loudly-dressed
girl, a weaver at the factory in the vale.

'Yi; an' hoo wears droppers an' o',' replied the friend whom she
addressed.

'Ey! haa hoo does pinch,' critically remarked Libby Eastwood, the
dressmaker of the village.

'Nay, Libby; yon's a natural sized waist--hoo's nobbud small made,
thaa sees,' said the woman to whom the remark had been made.

'Well, aw'd ha' donned a bonnet on a Sunday.'

'Yi; so would I. An' a married woman an' o'--aw think hoo might be
daycent.'

'Aw'll tell thee what, Mary Ann--there's a deal o' mak' up i' that
yure (hair), or aw'm mista'en.'

'Yo're reet, lass; there is, an' no mistak'.'

'Can hoo play th' pianer, thinksto?'

'Can hoo dust one?'

'Nowe, aw'll warnd hoo cornd.'

'Hoo thinks hersel' aboon porritch, does yon lot.'

'Dun yo' think hoo can mak' porritch?' sneered Amos to the woman
who passed the unkindly remark.

'Nowe, Amos, aw durnd. Yon lass'll cost Penrose some brass. Yo'll
see if hoo doesnd.'

While this criticism was going on in the chapel yard, Mrs. Penrose
was seated in the pew of Dr. Hale, somewhat bewildered and not a
little overstrained. Here, too, poor woman, she was unconsciously
giving offence, for on entering she had knelt down in prayer, Old
Clogs declaring that 'hoo were on her knees three minutes and a
hawve, by th' chapel clock;' while at the conclusion of the
service, after the congregation were on their feet in noisy exit,
her devotional attitude led others to brand her both as a 'ritual'
and a 'papist.'

During the afternoon there was a repetition of the morning's
ordeal, and at the service the young wife was again the one on
whom all eyes were fixed, and of whom all tongues whispered.
Never before had she been so called to suffer. If the keen
glances of the congregation had been softened by the slightest
sympathy she could better have stood the glare of curiosity; but
no such ray of sympathy was there blended with the looks. Hard,
cold, and critical--such was the language of every eye. Rehoboth
hated what it called 'foreigners'--those who had been born and
brought up in districts distant from its own. All strange places
were Nazareths, and all strangers were Nazarenes, and the cry
was, 'Can any good thing come out therefrom?' And to this
question the answer was ever negative. Outside Rehoboth dwelt the
alien. In course of years the prejudice towards the intruder
submitted itself to the force of custom, and less suspicious
became the looks, and less harsh the tongues. Even then, however,
the old Rehobothite remained a Hebrew of Hebrews; while the
others, at the best, were but proselytes of the gate. It was the
first brunt of this storm of suspicion from which the minister's
wife was suffering, and she was powerless to stay it, or even
allay its stress; nor could her husband come to her deliverance.
Milly, however, like the good angel that she was, proved her
friend in need, and all unconsciously, and yet effectively,
turned the tide of cruel and inquisitorial scorn first of all
into wonder and then into delight.

And it came about in this manner. As the congregation were leaving
the chapel at the close of the afternoon service, and poor Mrs.
Penrose, sorely bewildered, was jostled by the staring throng,
Milly pushed her way with her crutch to the blushing woman, and,
handing her a bunch of flowers, said:

'See yo', Mrs. Penrose, here's a posy for yo'. Yo're maister sez
as yo' like flaars, an' aw've grow'd these i' my own garden. Aw
should ha' brought 'em this mornin', but aw couldn't ged aat; an'
mi mother wouldn't bring 'em for me, for hoo said aw mun bring 'em
mysel.'

Mrs. Penrose could not translate the vernacular in which the child
spoke, but she could, and did, translate the gift; and tears came
into her eyes as she reached out her hand to take from the
crippled girl the big bunch of roses, tiger-lilies and hollyhocks
which Milly extended towards her. There was a welcome in the
flowers of Rehoboth, if not in the people, thought she; and, at
any rate, one little soul felt warmly towards her.

As Mrs. Penrose looked at the blushing flowers and caught the
scents that stole up from them, and as she looked at the little
face on which suffering had drawn such deep lines--a little face
that told of pity for the lonely bride--a home feeling came over
her, and she felt that there was another in Rehoboth, as well as
her husband, by whom she was loved. To Mrs. Penrose little Milly's
gift made the wilderness to rejoice and the desert to blossom as
the rose; and, stooping, she kissed the child, while her tears
fell fast and starred the flowers she held in her hand.

That kiss, and the tears, won half the hearts of the Rehoboth
congregation.

'Hoo's a lady, whatever else hoo is,' said an old woman; 'an' if
hoo's aboon porritch, hoo's none aboon kissin' a poor mon's
child.'

* * * * *

That evening, as Mr. Penrose walked with his wife along the path
of the old manse garden, he turned to her, saying:

'This has been a trying Sunday, little woman.'

'Yes; but I've got over it, thanks to that little lame girl. It
was her nosegay that brought me through, Walter, and that little
face of hers, so full of kindly concern and pity. You don't know
how hard my heart was until she came to me--hard even against you
for bringing me here.'

'And you kissed Milly, didn't you, Lucy?'

'Yes. I didn't do wrong, did I?'

'No. That kiss of yours has touched hearts my theology cannot
touch. You are queen here now.'

'Yours--and always!'

Then he drew her to his side, and kissed her as she had kissed
Milly, and on lips as sweet and rosy as the petals that fell at
their feet.


THE END.


BILLING AND SONS, PRINTERS, GUILDFORD.

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