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 THE LIBRARY 
 
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 OF CALIFORNIA 
 LOS ANGELES
 
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 Sunday School, 
 
 HALTOIN. 
 
 K.PRE:SENTED T O >> ,. 
 
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 For Regular and Punctual 
 Attendance during the Year 
 
 >iiperinlendenl. 
 
 Superitiiendent. 
 
 ^^ Secretary. 
 
 Sicretary. 
 
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 A FEW OPINIONS OF THE PRESS 
 
 ON 
 
 Mr. MARSHALL MATHER'S Work, 
 
 'Xancaehirc 3^\!lU/ 
 
 TTie BIRMINGUA M DA I L 1 GAZETTE says : 
 
 ' It is one of the raott charminK book* of fulW 1 i' we hive teen for nvany 
 
 a day. It hxs been left to Mr. .Nljtlier to r.i - - .iri'l 
 
 care an enJuring memorial lo ih' r-.i'!'- *)U1 I . -Mr. 
 
 Mather h.-xs drawn a -.cries of a;.U .urr.i.n..;- 
 
 ings. Everj- one of thee pi ■ • • »a« tilled for 
 the task, and each be.-\pi the i 
 
 with the innermost life an 1 
 picturesquely portrays. Non' ■ 
 
 done her a truer service than M- v 
 
 these altogctlicr delightful skctcbc - . ,-^.., ^ ...^^^...^. ■,. ..-.. -.-,:• 
 
 reaching borders." 
 
 The LIVERPOOL COl'IilEIi sttys: 
 
 ' It is a clean and wholesome book. It makes lu uluuned of our 
 
 "Second Mrs. Tamjuerajni" our "Tii" '•■'.'• ^^ who l)id," thit 
 
 and that other thing. Ttiis breath fn : . rt Kent of the 
 
 wine-red moor — a.iJ the spectacle of vi ^ in a tapphire 
 
 sea, drawn with such vivid frtshnes* s: iv st lerve a» a 
 
 healthy corrective to all who avail the: Let it not be 
 
 !>upi>osed that Mr. Mather deals with - Kar from it. Hi* 
 
 heroes and heroines are a nide, preju ii .: i<t of bcnr^v I'.ut 
 
 it is the purp'jsc of the work that makcj the diiTcieitce. That i i 
 
 as regards every page, and the touch is that of the tnie r»rii«i . > 
 
 would elevate the human family must preterve the hi .' . I here 
 
 is no other road to real Drocress. Such ideals aboun. . nuine aitd 
 
 beautiful " Lancashire Idylls." ' 
 
 The MANtllKSTER CITY \EtrS says: 
 
 'This is a singularly interestinfj book. It ought to receive a co dial 
 welcome in Lancashire and be widely read beyond the confines of the 
 county. In general character it resembles, and iu interest it quite equal*, 
 the sketches of Scottish humble life which have gained Mr. Uarric and 
 " Ian Maclaren" great popularity south of the Tweed.' 
 
 TJie COURT JOURNAL says: 
 
 ' Pathos and humour rub shouldf rs in Mr. Mather's book as they do in 
 life iuelf, and the result is a curiously interesting piece of woik. We 
 should feel sorryfor anyone who could read the exquisite sketch, " A Child 
 of the Heather," with dry eyes, and the grim humour of " A .Moorl.ind 
 Machpelah " is quite admirable. There are twenty delightful " Idylls " in 
 the volume, not one of which fails to show either strength, tenderness, 
 humour, or beauty, and we must refer our readers to the book itself as to 
 something unconventional and fascinating.'
 
 THE SIGN OF 
 THE WOODEN SHOON.
 
 THE SIGN OF 
 THE WOODEN SHOON. 
 
 BY 
 
 MARSHALL MATHER, 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 'lAN'CASHIRE idylls,' 'life and teachings of JOHN RUSKIN,' 
 
 ' POPULAR STUDIES IN NINETEENTH CENTURY POETS," 
 
 ETC., ETC. 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 FREDERICK WARNE AND CO. 
 
 AND NEW YORK. 
 
 1898. 
 [Ail rights reserved.]
 
 ff\ 
 
 
 7f ^ f 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 FACE 
 
 THE LAST AND LATE BORN OF ELIJAH 
 AND ASENATH : 
 
 1. Aftermath - . - 1 1 
 
 n. God Disposes - - - 28 
 
 ni. The Open Cage - - - 45 
 
 IV. The Vigil of Despair - - 64 
 
 V. Little Samuel's Substitute - 79 
 
 ELIJAH INTRODUCES THE VICAR TO 
 
 HIS PARISHIONERS - . 99 
 
 THEOLOGY IN A CLOGGER'S SHOP . 117 
 
 ENOS THE EXORCIST : 
 
 I. A Strange Tenant - - - 130 
 
 IL A Forsaken Soul - . - ic6 
 
 OWD YEB'S NEMESIS : 
 
 I. A Morning's Quest- - ■ 17? 
 
 II. Liza's Prayer - . - 1 94 
 
 III. The Buckled Strap . . 209 
 
 1 o #^v>b'lu
 
 VUl 
 
 Contents. 
 
 THE SEVEN STARS : 
 
 I. A Fallen Star 
 II. A Mother's Wail • 
 III. Life and Death 
 
 ENOS TAKES HIS FIRST 
 CARRIAGE DRIVE 
 
 AND LAST 
 
 THE TRAMP WEA\T.R'S REVENGE 
 I. The Tramp Weaver 
 II. Love conquers all - 
 III. Transformed 
 
 PACK 
 
 227 
 
 2 + 3 
 
 260 
 
 275 
 
 295 
 
 309 
 323 
 
 TAKING DOWN THE SIGN - 
 
 337
 
 THE LAST AND LATE BORN OF 
 ELIJAH AND ASENATH. 
 
 I. Aftermath. 
 
 II. God disposes. 
 
 III. The Open Cage. 
 
 IV. The Vigil of Despair. 
 
 V. Little Samuel's Substitute.
 
 •It came up late in the spring, 
 And bloomed at harvest time. 
 The reaper wept as he gathered the shorn flower 
 and bound it, 
 With the ripened grain, 
 In the sheaf of the Eternal,'
 
 THE 
 
 SIGN OF THE WOODEN SIIOON. 
 
 I. 
 
 AFTERMATH. 
 
 They were sitting in the twilight, looking into 
 the embers of the fire. A distraught air was 
 upon them, and each waited for the other to 
 break a silence both painful and long-continued. 
 The room was low-ceiled, and crossed with 
 warped and worm-eaten beams. Cumbrous 
 furniture filled up the spaces, and through a 
 mullioned window fell the closing lights of day. 
 A reign of quiet order, almost unhomely, rested 
 on chair and settle, shelf and sill, broken by no 
 misplaced trifle nor discounted by any trail of 
 dust. She who ruled here was called by her
 
 12 The Sitrn of the Wooden Sh(K)n. 
 
 & 
 
 neighbours ' pl;iguy clean ' — nor did they mis- 
 name her, for, careful and troubled about much 
 serving, she was never wearied of burnishing 
 her household shrine. 
 
 Once upon a time little children kept her 
 following at their toddling heels ; but this was 
 years ago, and now they were fending for them- 
 selves in distant towns. For long the house 
 had been silent ; and as time passed the mother 
 became more the wife, and love of offspring was 
 rivalled by pride of home. 
 
 But the angel of maternity was once more 
 overshadowing her, and there was the late 
 promise of one who should be a child of old 
 age. Neither to Elijah nor to his wife Asenath 
 was the messenger welcome, and more than once 
 she had murmured she'd ' no mind to start life 
 o'er agen.' They spoke little to one another 
 about it, and sought to hold it secret from their 
 neighbours. But the moons were telling their 
 tale, and prying eyes, that no subterfuge could 
 deceive, began to be suspicious, while curious 
 tongues already wagged. 
 
 As the shadows lengthened, and the fire 
 burned with the brightness of nightfall, the
 
 Aftermath- 1 3 
 
 faces of the silent sitters stood out in fitful 
 relief. The man, who was spare and round- 
 shouldered, preserved a kindly play of line 
 about the eyes and mouth — a face, his, over 
 which time had not tyrannized, yet not free 
 from the veil so often thrown by a puritanic 
 faith. The countenance of his wife was set in 
 stronger cast. There was a straightness about 
 the nose, and a compression in the lips, that 
 told of strength and self-sufficiency ; while all 
 the sentiment of her nature was hidden away 
 beneath the firm control, almost rigid and 
 statuesque, of her immobile features. She was 
 one of those stolid women who could fulfil her 
 round of household labours, carry her burdens, 
 hide her sorrows, and ask little from any, ever 
 self-contained and strong. Her tongue was 
 sharp, her wit drastic ; though her approaching 
 trouble had somewhat tamed these, holding her 
 from many with whom she used to chat and 
 chaff and rouse to merriment with her quaint 
 moorland talk. 
 
 It was she who at last broke the silence. 
 ' Elijah,' she said, ' it's no use ; thaa mut as weel 
 face up like a mon,'
 
 14 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 * Aw durnd know as aw've faced up ony 
 other road yet, lass,' was his reply. 
 
 •Yi! thaahas! Thaa'rt shamed o'er fotchin' 
 th' kayther (cradle) ; but tha'll have to fotch 
 it, an' to morn an' o', so thaa mut as weel 
 mak up thi mind to 't !' 
 
 ' Thaa shouldn't ha' gi'n th' owd un away, 
 lass,' 
 
 ' Naa, 'Lijah ; durnd thee talk like a foo' 
 (fool). Who thought as aught o' this sort wor 
 baan to happen?' 
 
 ' There's no knowin' what'll happen i' this 
 world,' was his reply. 
 
 ' Durnd thee begin o' thi wise talk wi' me, 
 'Lijah. Aw'm noan i' th' humour for 't, aw con 
 tell thee. We'll fiddle through th' tune naa 
 we'n started ; and thaa'U nobbud mend matters 
 wur by sulkin'.' 
 
 ' W^ho is sulkin', lass .'*' 
 
 'Who's sulkin'.'' doesto say! Why, thaa 
 art. Thaa's never opened thi maath but when 
 thaa's opened it to eyt sin' thaa come whom ' 
 (home). 
 
 * Nay, lass. Aw'm noan so bad as thaa mak's 
 aat. Aw'm a bit worrited abaat thee ; thaa'rt
 
 Aftermath. 15 
 
 noan so young as thaa used to be, thaa 
 knows.' 
 
 ' It's th' kayther thaa wants to bother thi yed 
 abaat, an' noan me. Aw con shap (manage) if 
 thaa'll do as thaa'rt toud. Thaa'U have to goto 
 th' city to-morn, and fotch a kayther — and a 
 gradely one and o'. Doesto yer.-*' 
 
 EHjah never dreamed of disobeying the orders 
 of his wife ; once uttered they were irrevocable, 
 and he knew it. From her first hint as to the 
 purchase of the cradle, he saw what his task 
 would be, and made up his mind to its per- 
 formance. Yet he shrank from the ridicule 
 that would follow. He knew how his neigh- 
 bours would watch him, prying into the purpose 
 of his journey, looking out for his return, and 
 joking him as to his burden. And, as in 
 imagination he went through the duties of the 
 morrow, the perspiration stood out on his brow, 
 and for the first time in his life he felt himself 
 just a bit of a coward. 
 
 ' Well, lass,' continued Elijah, after another 
 pause, ' aw suppose aw mun do as thaa wants 
 me, but aw's go by th' furst train and come back 
 by th' last, or aw's have o' th' village after me.'
 
 i6 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 ' Thaa can do as thaa's a mind, so long as 
 thaa brings th' kayther wi' thee.' And so 
 saying, this hard-headed daughter of the hills 
 rose from her chair and lighted the lamp. Then, 
 drawing a basket towards her, she sat down to 
 sew at some articles of baby dress. 
 
 On the following morning Elijah, in his 
 * Sunday best,' hurried off, shyly and in trepida- 
 tion, to the station, comniissioned by his relent- 
 less wife for the purchase of a nest wherein the 
 new-comer was to lay its unwelcome head. As 
 he hastened through the deserted street he 
 thought of his trip on a like errand years before, 
 when, with a light heart and merry tongue, he 
 set out to provide for the advent of his first-born. 
 He remembered how merrily he sang as he 
 journeyed, and how proud he was to let the 
 neighbours know what he was fetching. It was 
 then the hour of a great delight to him ; but 
 now his feet were heavy and his heart sad — as 
 his wife put it, ' he fair shamed, though he'd no 
 need to.' 
 
 Careful as he was to seek escape from de- 
 tection, the neighbours were too keen for him, 
 watching his departure and speculating as to his
 
 Aftermath. 17 
 
 errand. Observant eyes pierced the dull light 
 of morning, and as he passed to the station 
 surmise did not slumber. 
 
 ' Where's 'Lijah baan this mornin', donn'd 
 i' his Sunday best ?' asked Matty o' Sals. 
 
 ' Thaa'd better ax him thysel'. There's no 
 speakin' to him an' his missis naa-a-days — they're 
 fit to bite folk yeds off.' This comment was 
 passed by an old man — an itinerant clock- 
 mender, who was known as 'Tic-tak.' 
 
 ' They are, forshure. 'Lijah used to be a 
 daycent sort ; but he's held his yed daan latly, 
 as though he'd done summit wrang, as they say.' 
 
 * Him an' th' wife have been terrible close o' 
 late,' continued Matty o' Sals. ' If they'd a 
 murderer shut up i' th' hoile (house), they 
 couldn't keep more to theirsels.' 
 
 ' It's noan a murderer they've getten' shut up, 
 lass,' said the old woman, with a knowing look 
 — ' is it, Tic-tak .^' 
 
 Tic-tak declared he knew ' naught abaat it,' 
 as he had never been ' axed to fettle Elijah's 
 clocks for th' last six months,' assuring the 
 gossips that ' all maks (kinds) o' mischief might 
 tak' place in that time.' 
 
 3
 
 1 8 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 ' Aw would like to know what he's gone for,' 
 continued Matty o' Sals, fretting in the meshes 
 of curiosity. * He's noan i' sich high feather 
 abaat it, whatever it is.' 
 
 * Thaa'rt reight, lass. He looks more like a 
 chap that's baan to swing, nor a chap as owns a 
 clog-shop.' 
 
 • It tak's summat beside brass to sweeten 
 porritch,' philosophized Tic-tak. * Yon wife's 
 tung of his 'ill bide some treacle, aw warnd * 
 (warrant). 
 
 ' But aw would like to know whod he's gone 
 for,* persisted Matty. 
 
 ' Summat thaa's no use for, lass,' said the old 
 woman ; ' so thaa's no need to bother thi 
 yed.' 
 
 Matty of Sals was a spinster. And yet all 
 through the day she fretted to know the errand 
 of Elijah; while the talk of the gossips was of 
 his morning's departure and mission to the city 
 beyond the hills. 
 
 On reaching the station, Elijah sought out a 
 compartment in which he could travel alone ; 
 but as the train was moving, two friends jumped 
 in and sat down at his side.
 
 Aftermath. 19 
 
 * Mornin' ! Baan to th' city ?' one of them 
 asked. 
 
 Elijah nodded his head. 
 
 * Arto baan a buyin' more leather, then ?' 
 Elijah nodded the lie he dared not utter. 
 
 * Aw thought as thaa'd bought thi leather last 
 month,' said the second of his travelling com- 
 panions. ' Hasto used it all ?' 
 
 ' Nowe,' answered Elijah ; ' aw've a bit laft.' 
 ' Let's see ! Who doesto get thi leather of, 
 'Lijah? Smithson's, isn't it?' 
 
 * Yi !' was Elijah's only response. 
 
 ' Well, aw want a bit o' leather misel' to-day. 
 If thaa doesn'd mind, aw'll go wi' thee. Aw 
 could like to open an account wi' Smithson's. 
 Happen thaa'd say a word for me?' 
 
 Elijah groaned, and said he'd a * two-three 
 arrands to do for t' misses ' afoore he could go 
 to the leather-merchant's, ' an' they mut excuse 
 him like.' 
 
 ' Thy misses hasn't bin so weel latly, has 
 hoo, 'Lijah ?' questioned the first of the two 
 speakers. 
 
 * Nowe, hoo hasn't, Aw'll tell yo' what, lads 
 — it's some hot i' this shop ; let's have th' winder
 
 20 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 daan a bit ;' and Elijah took off his hat and 
 wiped his reeking brow. 
 
 * Hot, doesto say ? Why, mon, its freezin', 
 an' a yest wind blowin' an' o'.' 
 
 * Daan wi' that winder,' cried EHjah, ' or aw'st 
 faint.' 
 
 The man spoken to jerked the strap, and let 
 the window fall into its slide with a bang, a 
 cold gust of air sweeping round the carriage and 
 scattering the icy particles carried in from the 
 moors. 
 
 ' Aw think tha mun a getten a touch o' 
 fayver, 'Lijah.' 
 
 * Yi ! Aw think aw mun ; aw've noan felt 
 weel latly.' 
 
 * Then, there's two on yo' bad at your haase 
 — th* misses an' yor'sel', lad ?' 
 
 At this juncture of the conversation the train 
 began to slow down, and the compartment 
 filled, relieving Elijah from the close questioning 
 of his inquiring friends, and giving him a chance 
 to regain his normal temperature. 
 
 Throughout the whole of that day Elijah 
 trod the city streets like a haunted man, thinking
 
 Aftermath. 2 1 
 
 himself dogged and shadowed, and the focus of 
 all eyes. How he dragged through its hours 
 he never afterwards knew, wandering from place 
 to place, seeing nothing, and being constantly 
 saluted by friends, yet showing no sign of 
 recognition. Only the terror of disobedience 
 when back again in the presence of his wife 
 forced and nerved him to make his purchase — 
 empty-handed he dared not return. This fear 
 alone overcame his foolish shame, or, rather, 
 that which his foolish shame would have had 
 him neglect. 
 
 On his homeward journey, however, he was 
 possessed of saner mind, his religion and super- 
 stition mastering his cowardice and folly. He 
 began to remember how his faith taught him 
 that children were a heritage from the Lord ; 
 and he wondered, in his simplicity, if his attitude 
 was not one of defiance to Him whom he feared. 
 Then he grew uneasy as he called to mind, from 
 the Bible he knew so well, instances of dire 
 punishment for rebellion and ingratitude such 
 as those in which he had indulged. From the 
 same old book he also called to mind how late- 
 born children had often been famous — sacred,
 
 22 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 and set apart for great callings — and also how 
 parentage in old age was a sign of Divine 
 approval. Isaac, Samuel, John, were all late- 
 born, and all famous ; Abraham, Elkanah, and 
 Zacharias were all parents in their old age. 
 Thus he laid, in his rude religious fashion, a flat- 
 tering unction to his soul, which eased the shame 
 he had so long nursed, and rebuked his folly. 
 
 Then the power of his puritanic faith asserted 
 itself, and pride — spiritual pride — entered into 
 his heart. Was he not a chosen vessel? and 
 might there not spring from him a prophet of 
 the highest.'* He worshipped Abraham's God ; 
 could he not claim Abraham's promise.'* And 
 as the train rattled on through the dark night, 
 shrieking and roaring over the moorland wastes 
 and through the gorges, Elijah knelt down on 
 the hard floor of the compartment, and, under 
 the dim flicker of the swealing lamp, asked the 
 God of little children to forgive his selfishness 
 and shame, dedicating the child of his old age to 
 the Eternal Father, who said : ' Suffer them 
 . . . for of such is My kingdom.' 
 ' Heather — low ! Heather — low !' 
 It was the cry of the night-porter, and as the
 
 Aftermath. 23 
 
 train drew up at the platform Elijah sprang out, 
 and almost ran with what was now no longer a 
 burden, but a treasure. The neighbours were 
 as good as their word — they were watching for 
 him. But the night was kindly, and in the 
 darkness they failed to discover what he bore 
 under his arm. The porter at the station saw, 
 however, and that night told his wife, and she, 
 in her excitement, whispered the secret to her 
 next-door neighbour, who in her turn pro- 
 claimed it from the housetops — or, rather, from 
 the house-steps — so that in twenty-four short 
 hours all Heatherlow knew why Elijah had 
 donned ' his Sunday best ' and gone to the city. 
 
 ' Naa, lass! will it do?' asked Elijah, after 
 removing the sheets of brown paper in which 
 the domestic ark was wrapped, and showing to 
 his wife a bassinette, lined with pink, and 
 trimmed with white muslin. 
 
 ' Yi,' said his partner, ' thaa's managed not 
 to make a foo' o' thisel' this time.' 
 
 'Durnd thee be so sure abaat that, lass.' 
 And then he told her how he had nodded the 
 lie about the leather to his companions in the
 
 24 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 train, and asked to have the window down, 
 despite the winter's wind, and all because he 
 ' shamed o' bein' a faither i' his owd age.' 
 
 * Ey dear, 'Lijah ! thaa wor awlus short o' 
 wit. Thee an owd mon ! why, thaa'rt noan 
 fifty yet, an' aw'm eight year younger nor 
 thee.' 
 
 ' Nowe — but thaa forgets we'n had no 
 childer for fifteen year !' 
 
 'An aw think 'ut thaa forgets aw wor wed 
 when aw wor seventeen. Doesto remember 
 haa folk cried shame on thee for marryin' a bit 
 ov a lass like me?' 
 
 ' Aw remember. But it wor th' best day's 
 wark aw ever did i' mi life, Asenath.' 
 
 * Thaa'rt reight, 'Lijah, it wor. Aw durnd 
 know what thaa'd a' done wi' thisel' but for me.' 
 
 Then Elijah lighted his pipe, and, drawing 
 his chair to the fire, told his wife about the 
 prayer put up by him in the railway-train, and 
 how he had 'told th' Almeety that if it were a 
 lad, it had to be a prophet like Samuel an' 
 John th' Baptist.' And how he believed it 
 would be a lad, and how he would ' tak' it up 
 to th' chapel,' and * eddicate it,' and send it to
 
 Aftermath. 25 
 
 college and * shap' it for a parson.' And as he 
 talked, his wife raised her apron to eyes filled 
 with tears, and the mother's heart once more 
 began to beat, and the instinct of former years 
 at last arose and welcomed the coming advent. 
 
 ' But thaa knows, 'Lijah, we cornd mak th' 
 child a parson.' 
 
 * Nowe, lass ; but we con eddicate him, and 
 mak a scholard on him.' 
 
 ' Yi ; but it's noan eddication, it's grace, 
 thaa knows, 'ut makes a parson, an' noather 
 thee nor me can give th' child that.' 
 
 * But there's a deal o' parsons as hasn't mich 
 grace, lass.' 
 
 'There is so,' replied his wife, as she watched 
 the smoke curl from his lips and pipe. 
 
 ' There is so — a deal o'er mony for mi likin' !* 
 
 'What arto smilin' at, 'Lijah ,^' asked his 
 wife in the old sharp tone of voice. 
 
 ' Naught mich, lass.' 
 
 ' Come, naa, I'm baan to know what it is 
 that's tickled thee.* 
 
 ' Why, happen it willn'd be a lad.' 
 
 ' Lad or lass, it'll be welcome. Theer'll noan 
 be "one too mony" at aar haase. Him as sends 
 
 4
 
 26 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 childer can iiKik hearts big enoufjh for all as 
 He sends.' 
 
 But it was a lad — *a fine, strappin' lad/ the 
 neighbours called it, and for many a week the 
 talk and wonder of the countryside. The 
 cradle, the purchase of which cost Elijah so 
 much, stood all the summer-tide in the cottage 
 doorway, flooded with the sunlight, in which 
 the little one kicked and crowed. Many a 
 time a day the mother turned aside from her 
 household toil to croon her love bits over the 
 open-eyed, rosy-faced babe, who in return 
 prattled responsive messages in sounds known 
 only to mothers and watching angels. In the 
 eyes of Elijah it was the most wonderful of 
 babies, and he was never weary of declaring 
 that 'its yed (head) wor made for knowledge, 
 and its maath for talkin'.' Then came the day 
 of its dedication, when the minister sprinkled it, 
 and gave to it the name of Samuel, and in his 
 prayer besought the Almighty that He would 
 early call the child, and keep him ever in the 
 temple courts. As time passed, and he grew, he 
 was carried across the road to his father's shop, 
 where he would sit with dreamy gaze on the blue
 
 Aftermath. 27 
 
 of the sky, or the purple of the moors, now toy- 
 ing with bits of leather, or learning the vernacular 
 of the village from the gossips who gathered to 
 talk round the dogger's stool. The presence of 
 the child became a centre of new life ; in his 
 opening light and intelligence Elijah renewed 
 his youth and cherished a future for his name. 
 At the home, too, it was again springtide — 
 walls, long silent, echoed, and rooms, across the 
 floors of which the little feet so long had ceased 
 to patter, resounded once more beneath their 
 beat. There was a going back to old life — a 
 rejuvenescence ; and often would Elijah with a 
 choking voice say : ' There's naught like a little 
 un for keepin' folk young.' Thus it was that 
 Samuel — or Sam'l, as they called him — grew 
 and waxed strong, and was known for miles as 
 the child of Elijah and Asenath's old age.
 
 II. 
 
 GOD DISPOSES. 
 
 Elijah Holt was the village dogger — in other 
 words, he made and repaired the wooden-soled 
 foot-gear of the factory operatives and quarry- 
 men who, with a few grass farmers, constituted 
 the scattered population of the moorland parish 
 of Heatherlow. 
 
 The shop in which he worked was gloomy, 
 save when bars of afternoon sunshine fell 
 through its dusty window ; while the cheerless- 
 ness of its whitewashed walls knew no relief but 
 what was gained from the torn engravings of 
 teetotal orators cut out by Elijah from tem- 
 perance papers and pasted in irregular rows — a 
 gallery of worthies the dogger most revered. 
 
 And yet this shop was the great rendezvous 
 
 of village gossip. The first fall of Elijah's 
 
 [ 28 ]
 
 God Disposes. 29 
 
 hammer was the beat that summoned the devo- 
 tees of news to their local shrine ; and in and 
 out they passed until the hammer ceased. Old 
 men would group round the counter, and weave 
 out of the smoke-wreaths from their pipes 
 reminiscences of former days ; while children 
 stole in to beg tatchin-end and cobbler's wax, 
 and bits of leather for their ' suckers ' — little 
 pleaders, these, whom Elijah never turned away. 
 Farmers, too, carried in odds and ends of 
 romance from the hills, and stray wanderers 
 from distant townships told how the world 
 wagged beyond the moors. Reports, startling, 
 and sometimes destructive, had their birth and 
 confirmation in Elijah's shop, and many a time 
 did a multitude of fertile minds create that 
 baseless fabric called ' they say so.' The curious, 
 too, would whisper what they heard elsewhere 
 in Elijah's ear, to receive the seal of truth or 
 denial. Indeed, the dogger's shop answered the 
 end of post-office and newspaper, messages being 
 left there until called for, while Elijah talked 
 his leading article morning by morning over his 
 clogs, when whosoever would might stand and 
 hear. There was always a weather chart — or
 
 30 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 what answered the same end — and a verbal Hst 
 of births, deaths, and marriages. Now and 
 again a rich story was told — oftener a joke — 
 not over-fine in its grain. Indeed, the Hfe and 
 spirit of the whole countryside was focussed in 
 Elijah's shop ; life, ideal and real, imaginative, 
 exaggerated, and true. 
 
 It was Monday morning, and Elijah was 
 singing a hymn in welcome both of his labour 
 and of the light. He had on the previous day, 
 to use his own words, been * a full-timer,' which, 
 translated into English, meant attendance at all 
 the services of the little chapel on the hill. 
 There was a cheery look on the dogger's face, 
 and a nimble movement in his limbs — a man 
 electric with the spirit of his religion and with 
 the spirit of the springtide that breathed its 
 -freshness from the outlying moors. He had 
 risen early, and his prayers still haunted the 
 chamber in which he left his sleeping wife and 
 boy. Ah, that boy ! — ' little Sam'l,' as he called 
 him — he was never out of his thoughts. By day 
 he worked for his education — for was he not to 
 go to college, and be a parson? By night he 
 dreamed of him and his future. As he lay
 
 God Disposes. 31 
 
 awake, looking out into the darkness, how often 
 he pictured him in the pulpit of some great 
 church, and then the silent hours would ring 
 melodious with a voice eloquent as that of an 
 angel's. Since the boy's advent Elijah had lived 
 in another world — a world in which a little 
 child was leading. 
 
 It was Monday morning, and Elijah was busy 
 at his work. Despite the open door and the 
 fresh moorland breeze that wafted through, the 
 shop was odorous of wax and stale dubbing. 
 Worn-out clogs were piled in distant corners, 
 and chips and leather shavings lay strewn 
 across the floor. A rude counter divided the 
 entrance from the window before which Elijah 
 sat — a counter across which the operatives 
 passed their damaged shoon, and across which 
 they received them ' neatly repaired ' or mended. 
 At one end stood a stack of wooden blocks, 
 shaped into arched soles ; while bevelled iron, 
 in malleable lengths, hung from the ceiling, in 
 its turn to be cut and nailed to the wooden, 
 soles, and so lend durance in the busy wear of 
 life. 
 
 'Hello, 'Lijah! Aught fresh .^' The voice
 
 32 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 was thick, and sounded as from a bibulous 
 throat. 
 
 ' Not as aw know on, Yeb (Edmund) ; 
 nobbud hard wark, and plenty on't.' 
 
 ' And plenty at th' end on't an* o', aw warnd 
 (warrant). But that's naught fresh to th' likes 
 o' thee, 'Lijah.' 
 
 ' Happen not, Yeb ; but it is to th' likes o' 
 thee! And the speaker looked up from the 
 clog over which he was stooping, and, wiping 
 the sweat from his brow, gave his interlocutor 
 a knowing nod. 
 
 At this good-humoured retort, Yeb put on 
 an injured air, and said : 
 
 ' 'Lijah, thaa'rt a foo' ! It's time thaa began 
 o' straightenin' that back o' thine. If thaa 
 doesn'd, them as lays thee aat 'ill do it for 
 thee. An' thaa'll ha to stop then, thaa knows, 
 for owd Solomon says as there's no wark i' th' 
 grave.' 
 
 ' Bless thee, lad ! that's just why I'm a full- 
 timer naa ;' and Elijah bent again to his clog. 
 
 ' There's not mich sense i' thi reason, 'Lijah ! 
 Gi'me time to look raand a bit, an' see what's 
 sturrin'.'
 
 God Dispsoes. 33 
 
 ' An' a deal thaa sees wi' thi lookin' raand. 
 Aw bet aw see more at mi wark nor thaa sees 
 at thy lakin' (playing or idling).' 
 
 * Well, thaa sees, thaa has th' plesur o' 
 savin', an' aw hav th' plesur o' spendin'. It's 
 th' way a chap's shapped. There's some as tak's 
 to wark as ducks tak' to watter. But aw'm 
 noan taken that road misel'.' 
 
 ' Aw durnd think thaa art, lad. An' there's 
 a deal more o' thi feshion.' 
 
 ' What arto baan to do wi' thi brass, 'Lijah.''' 
 
 * Eddicate Sam'l.' 
 
 * But supposin' he dees ?' 
 
 * Supposin' what V asked Elijah, looking up 
 from his work, a pale shade coming upon his 
 face. 
 
 ' Suppose th* lad dees — whod then V 
 
 * Why should he dee, Yeb .?' 
 
 ' Nay, thaa mun ax th' owd leveller that. 
 Aw durnd know as he's ony more particlar 
 abaat thi lad nor mine. An' thaa knows mine 
 had to go.' 
 
 ' Yi, he had, forsure,' said Elijah, as though 
 talking to himself, and lighting on an idea that 
 never before occurred to him. 
 
 5
 
 34 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 ' Aw'll tell thee whod it is, 'Lijah — a fclley's a 
 too' 'ut plays providence to his childer.' 
 
 Elijah was silent, for a great weight lay at his 
 heart. The springtide charm had gone ; the 
 sun was down, and darkness overwhelmed him. 
 Then there stole over him the shadow of fore- 
 boding — an indefinite ill that seemed to draw 
 near and seat itself at his side. He had planned 
 much ; and all was for Samuel. No detail, as 
 far as he knew, was overlooked. And now 
 there was the possibility that the scheme of 
 years might collapse. He saw, for the first time, 
 the fearful contingency of death. 
 
 ' Thaa'rt baan to mak' a parson on him, arn'd 
 ta, 'Lijah.'"' asked Yeb, breaking the silence. 
 
 Elijah nodded. 
 
 ' Doesn'd ta think there's too mony o' that 
 breed a'redy.''' 
 
 ' Thaa cornd have too mich of a good thing, 
 thaa knows,' answered Elijah, brightening. 
 
 ' Well, thaa sees, aw look at it i' this road. 
 Parsons is noather use nor ornament ; they do 
 naught, an' they're naught mich to look at ; 
 they awlus look as if they wor baan to a 
 berryin' (funeral).'
 
 God Disposes. 35 
 
 ' But they preych, Yeb !' 
 
 ' Yi, for brass ! But what's preychin' ? 
 It's noan producin'. There's summat at th' end 
 of a clog, thaa knows ; but there's naught at 
 th' end of a sarmon.' 
 
 ' But didn't Paul say 'at th' foolishness o' 
 preychin' were to save th' world?' 
 
 ' Well, aw'll tell thee what my idea o' salva- 
 tion is, 'Lijah. It's summat to eat and summat 
 to wear. Thaa mak's clogs an' keeps folk feet 
 warm, and thaa'd better let Sam'l do th' same. 
 He'll mak' more folk happy nor he will wi' 
 sarmons.' 
 
 ' Thaa sees, Yeb, thaa's never shared th' 
 plesur o' religion.' 
 
 ' Nowe ; but aw know what th' plesurs o' 
 warm feet are in cowd weather. Clogs afoore 
 sarmons, ony day.' 
 
 'Why not have 'em both, Yeb.?' 
 
 'Thaa'U do as thaa likes, aw suppose, 'Lijah; 
 bnt aw'm agen eddication. Didto yer what 
 Jone o' th' Clough Yed said to th' vicar t'other 
 day ?' 
 
 Nay, what wor it he said V 
 
 ' Why, th' vicar axed him haa it wor as a rich
 
 36 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 mon like him didn'd send his lad to boardin' 
 scoo' ; and th' owd chap said becose he didn'd 
 want his lads to come whom an' tell him haa to 
 eyt his baggin' (dinner), an' haa to shap his 
 maath when he talked.' 
 
 'There's happen summat in it. But aw'm 
 noan feard o' Sam'l — bless him !' 
 
 At this juncture a milk-cart drove up to the 
 door of the dogger's shop ; and, looking up, 
 EHjah saw young Jim o' th' Heights getting 
 down from between his cans, decked out in his 
 best, and on his way to the May Day show at 
 Dene. 
 
 'Aw've called to fotch Sam'l, 'Lijah! He 
 mut as weel go wi' me to th' show.' 
 
 * Thaa mun ax th' misses, lad — you'll find her 
 an' th' child i' th' haase.' 
 
 ' Aw'll tell thee whod, 'Lijah : there's a terrible 
 deal o* milk-carts knockin' abaat nowadays,' 
 said Yeb, as soon as Jim had turned his back. 
 ' When aw wor a lad, we'd to fotch aar own 
 milk, an' then it were nobbud blue,' 
 
 ' Competition, thaa sees.' 
 
 *Nay, that's just what aw durnd see. It's
 
 God Disposes. 37 
 
 noan competition — it's fancy stomachs. Folk 
 durnd know what they want naa. Why, aw 
 never tasted tay whol aw were seven-an'-twenty. 
 An' aw shouldn't ha' tasted then, but mi aunt 
 Martha deed, and mi uncle geet some for th' 
 berryin'. Aw mind as we supped hawve on it, 
 an' t'other hawve wor put awaa i' a canister on 
 th' chimbley-piece till th' owd felley deed hisel', 
 ten year after ; and then we supped what wor 
 laft o'er him, Aw'll tell thi whod, 'Lijah : aw'll 
 back ale and oatmeal agen tay and moufKns ony 
 day.' 
 
 ' If thaa'd supped less ale and more tay, Yeb, 
 thaa'd ha' had more brass i' thi pocket than thaa 
 has,' replied Elijah. 
 
 ' Sithee, 'Lijah,' said Yeb, ' as long as aw live 
 aw'm baan to put th' best as aw con pay for 
 into my inside — aw'm baan to treat it like a 
 gentleman, aw con tell thi,' 
 
 The conversation was interrupted by Jim o' 
 th' Heights, who now came over the road from 
 Elijah's house, bearing in his arms the lad 
 Samuel, who, donned in his Sunday clothes, 
 carried a little whip in his hand, his face one 
 glow of excitement at the anticipated drive, and
 
 38 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 May Day show at Dene, Kissing his doting 
 parent, he was placed securely between the 
 shining milk-cans, followed, as he rattled away, 
 by Elijah's paternal injunction, ' Be sure thaa 
 tak's care on him, Jim ;' in response to which 
 Jim waved and cracked his whip, crying out in 
 mirthful tones : ' O' reight ; aw'll look after him, 
 'Lijah.' 
 
 It was May Day after the fashion of the 
 olden time — a warm sun, a clear sky, a bounty 
 of flowers, and throngs of merry-voiced holiday- 
 makers. As Jim drove along the road, shadowed 
 by the bright greenery of early spring foliage, 
 the little mare, fresh from a week's stabling and 
 corn, stepped out friskily, pricking her ears at 
 the shouts of the boisterous pedestrians, and 
 starting aside at the sound of distant bands. 
 Though Jim held a tight rein, the pace out- 
 distanced that of other traps and conveyances 
 travelling towards the show ; and not a few of 
 the more timid and more cautious prophesied, 
 as he dashed past them, a spill. 
 
 On entering the town the crowd became 
 more dense, a network of vehicles, with their
 
 God Disposes. 39 
 
 gaily-decked horses, winding through the con- 
 course of sightseers like a many-coloured thread. 
 At this the mare grew restive ; when, in the 
 throng of the excitement, a prize band struck 
 up a national air with the full accompaniment 
 of its brass instruments, the blare of which fired 
 the overstrained animal with the madness of 
 fright. 
 
 In a moment the crowd parted — parted as 
 the sea before the magic rod of the Hebrew 
 leader ; and a line of clearance lay along the 
 whole length of street. 
 
 Jim carried a cool head and a steady hand, 
 holding the frenzied brute well under the 
 guidance of the rein. Without a hitch he 
 threaded his way amidst the retreating crowd, 
 winding through the intricacies of its rapidly 
 formed path with consummate skill. 
 
 But dangers were ahead. Right before him, 
 and blocking his path, was the big lamp with 
 which, save for a miracle, he must collide. For 
 once, however, Providence was on the side of 
 horsemanship, and he rounded the post, though 
 for upwards of thirty yards the cart was carried 
 at a precipitate angle and on one wheel alone.
 
 40 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 Then came the bridge — an old-world bridge 
 — a bridge rising from the road with sudden 
 gradient, and narrowing towards its crown, to 
 descend with sudden declivity on the farther 
 side. Jim saw it, and saw that he must face 
 it, and, biting his blanched lips, prepared to 
 steer between the parapet, and keep the feet of 
 his mare on the terrible descent beyond. 
 
 'Sam'l,' said Jim, as cool as though he were 
 selling milk in the village street, 'Sam'l ! howd 
 on to th' cart-side.' 
 
 Like a flash the horse mounted the brow, 
 clearing the closing walls by a hair's-breadth, 
 then, swift as thought, swept down the declivity 
 into the road below. 
 
 A great roar went up from the crowd ; but 
 it was a roar that lent speed to the spanking 
 pace at which the horse was going, and a 
 hundredfold increased the risks. 
 
 There now lay before them a mile of road — 
 straight and level — but leading into a highway 
 along which steam - trams from neighbouring 
 towns travelled with their cumbrous engines 
 and heavily freighted cars. Jim's quick, cool 
 wit told him that, this highway cleared, all was
 
 God Disposes. 41 
 
 well ; for he knew he could easily wind his 
 horse on the miles of road beyond. But what 
 if they collided — trap and tram ? What if they 
 clashed with steel and steam? There was just 
 the off chance. And Jim's heart leapt, and for 
 a moment a suffocating hand was at his throat. 
 Then he grew strong as he remembered the 
 chances were in his favour. There was the 
 child, too — the trembling child at his side ; 
 was he not the Lord's child — a child of many 
 prayers — one over whom the angels had 
 charge? Surely no harm would come nigh 
 him ! So Jim reasoned in his onward flight. 
 
 But who knoweth the mind of Providence? 
 and who dare gauge the future from its little- 
 known laws ? There was a blinding crash, a 
 singing sound in the ears of Jim, a writhing 
 horse netted in iron wheels, an overturned cart, 
 and under it * the Lord's child,' little Sam'l ! 
 
 Throughout the golden hours of that May 
 Day the chill shadow of foreboding haunted 
 Elijah. He saw no sun, he scented no breath 
 of flowers. The old hymns that changed his 
 labour into praise were left unsung ; even his 
 
 6
 
 42 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 hand forsook its cunning, and he threw down 
 his clogs in despair. Ill at ease, he set out to 
 walk to Dene ; but the shadow followed, still 
 whispering evil tidings. He sought to banish 
 it, but could no more do so than he could banish 
 the shadow of the trees under which he walked ; 
 nor could he silence its voice of dark prophecy. 
 With swift recurrence he found himself asking, 
 * Is it well with the child ?' And the answer of 
 the shadow was always the same — ' The child is 
 dead.' Then Elijah reasoned with the shadow. 
 He told it that Providence watched over the 
 children of promise. He told it that the 
 expected never happened. He told it, too, that 
 little ones lived charmed lives in the midst of 
 danger, yet only received for response the 
 shadow's closer companionship. Then old 
 Yeb's words, spoken in the morning, began to 
 beat a torturing refrain in his ears — ' A felley's 
 a foo 'ut -plays -providence to his childer! Time 
 and time again they rang their changes — v.ild 
 music, nay, deadly discords, knelled from the 
 shadowy land. 
 
 In the distance, as he journeyed, rose a ridge 
 of hills, a dark cloud shrouding their summits,
 
 God Disposes. 43 
 
 as though a pall were spreading over the valley 
 beyond, where lay the little town of Dene. As 
 Elijah raised his eyes to the gloomy vapour, 
 tongues of flame shot out at him as though to 
 mock him, and mutterings of thunder fell on 
 his ear. Then he saw forms emerge from the 
 darkness and hurry out of the cloud — forms 
 wild in their movements and wild in their cries. 
 On they came, nearer and yet nearer, when, 
 on seeing him, they paused ; nor did they 
 move until he stood by them, reading in their 
 faces the story their sealed lips could not tell. 
 
 As Elijah stood by little Samuel as he lay, 
 white and unconscious, in the chamber of the 
 Ram Inn, feeling and thought forsook him. 
 Then there was borne in on him, slowly and 
 vaguely at first, the fact that he had lost in the 
 game so carefully and religiously played — a 
 game in which he had backed Providence 
 against the exigences of life. He had staked all 
 on the boy, built up defences for his safety, and 
 planned pastures for his feet — and the defences 
 were proved vain, and the pastures blighted. 
 Nay, more : he had invoked the care of God,
 
 44 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 and put in a claim for what the people at the 
 little chapel called ' the promises,' which were 
 Yea and Amen to them that believe. And this 
 was the end of all. Better the lad should die 
 than ever live to preach what Elijah now 
 believed to be a lie. So he vaguely reasoned in 
 the half-lights that were beginning to fall on 
 his soul. 
 
 And while Elijah thus stood, and his wife 
 was being hurried to his side, groups of neigh- 
 bours gathered round the dogger's shop at 
 Heatherlow, and among them ' owd Yeb,' who 
 vociferously declared, times often, that ' A 
 feUey's a fr.o 'ut ^Inys providence to his childer.'
 
 III. 
 
 THE OPEN CAGE. 
 
 It was after many weary weeks of suffering 
 that ' little Sam'l ' was brought back, a hope- 
 less cripple, to his father's house at Heatherlow. 
 The skill of doctors at the great infirmary had 
 been in vain : the spine was injured, and the 
 lower part of the child's body paralyzed. 
 Besides this, the boy was forced to wear what 
 the neighbours called ' irons ' — a network of 
 steel that clasped his frail frame and yielded 
 artificial support. He was subject, too, to 
 sudden relapses, when the heart would beat low 
 and the drawn face take a more deathly pallor. 
 Of these, the doctors warned Elijah and his wife, 
 for in one of them, they said, the boy might 
 die. Poor lad ! he was a hideous wreck — a
 
 46 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 parody of the once beautiful child, whose light 
 had brightened the old home. But he lived, 
 and, as his father used to say, ' if he wor 
 nobbud theer to look at, it wor summat.' And 
 yet Elijah dared not let his eyes rest too long 
 on the little cripple, nor dare he look too long 
 on children perfect in limb, lest pangs of resent- 
 ment plagued him. Elijah's religion had also 
 suffered shock, and now he seldom found his 
 way to the chapel on the hill. The truth was — 
 his faith had fallen with the fall of his child. 
 There were some who said he was an infidel. 
 This was idle talk, however, for no infidelity 
 could hold up its head in the atmosphere where 
 little Sam'l lived. True, the boy would never 
 be a preacher now — that is, as the gaping world 
 counts preaching ; yet all through the day his 
 quaint talk and quiet contentment were eloquent 
 as the speech of heaven, and told their tale on 
 the hearts of many of the gossipers at ' the Sign 
 of the Wooden Shoon.' 
 
 One day Owd Tic-tak came into the shop 
 with a cage, a smile broadening his wrinkled 
 face, and saying : 
 
 'Sithee, Sam'l, aw've brought thee a brid
 
 The Open Cage. 47 
 
 (bird). It'll sing for thee, thaa knows, and 
 keep thi heart up when thaa'rt daan like. 
 There's naught like a bit o' music — is ther, 
 'Lijah ?' 
 
 ' It's noan so mich i' mi line naa, Tic-tak,' 
 sighed Elijah ; ' my singin' days are o'er ;' and 
 he cast a sorrowful look at the boy, who now 
 held the cage on his knee, eyeing the bird with 
 tenderness and delight. 
 
 ' Then thaa con let th' brid take thi place. 
 Because thaa's gi'en o'er thysel', it doesn'd go 
 as thaa should stop th' mouth o' Nature. Here, 
 Sam'l, lend me th' cage, an' aw'U hang it i' th' 
 sunleet ;' and, reaching out, he fastened the 
 warbler in the doorway. 
 
 In a little while a low sweet note came from 
 the bird — timorous and tentative ; then, as 
 though gaining confidence, the trial was re- 
 peated, and followed by a succession of rapturous 
 sounds, that brought a light of joy into the pale 
 face of the crippled boy. 
 
 ' Better nor yore long metres, 'Lijah — isn't it, 
 
 lad r 
 
 Elijah nodded his head, a movement on his 
 part indicative of indefiniteness of reply.
 
 48 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 ' Long metres an' long faces, 'Lijah, aw mak' 
 naught o' oather on 'em.' 
 
 ' Some folk have enu^h to mak' their faces 
 long, Tic-tak, aw con tell thee. Wait whol 
 sorrow's pool'd thine a bit, an' then we'll see 
 haa thaa looks i' a potograf.' 
 
 ' It's pool'd aboon a bit, 'Lijah. Aw've four 
 on 'em i' th' churchyard yon ; an' that's a big 
 slice aat of a chap's life, aw con tell thi. An' 
 thaa's to berry thi first yet.' 
 
 The rapturous song of the bird here drowned 
 the conversation, and struck a note of contrast 
 to the minor chord into which it had so suddenly 
 fallen. Then they held their peace to listen, 
 while the boy's eyes were fixed with fascination 
 on the songster. 
 
 In a moment he turned towards his father, 
 and said : ' Aw'll tell yo' what, dad. Th' brid's 
 o' reight, if it is as ill off as me. If it cornd 
 get away fro' it cage, it sings all th' same.' 
 
 ' What doesto mean, Sam'l ^ Thaa'rt i' no 
 cage.' 
 
 ' Ammat aw just,'' What do yo' call this.^' 
 and the boy moved restlessly in the iron frame 
 that supported his twisted limbs.
 
 The Open Cage. 49 
 
 ' Th' lad has some wit, an' no mistak',' 
 muttered Tic-tak. ' An' aw durnd know as 
 aw'd swop places wi' him noather, if I wor 
 th' owd songster.' 
 
 And so the days passed, the sad father seeking 
 to sweat away his sorrow by the oblivious 
 antidote of toil, his boy the while seated at his 
 side, ever fraying the sore with questions and 
 conversation that betrayed powers and parts now 
 for ever wrecked by the paralysis that held him 
 prisoner in his iron cage. 
 
 The hand of the destroyer worked apace ; 
 and throughout Samuel's thirteenth year it was 
 plain to all eyes, save those of the hope-blinded 
 father, that the little life was well-nigh spent. 
 His visits to the shop were now over, and 
 Elijah had to work alone. These were dreary 
 days — days of loneliness and gloom — days in 
 which the hours dragged with leaden feet ; 
 while the evenings at home, when father and 
 son sat by the fire, fled with the swiftness 
 of the told tale. Then it was Samuel would 
 talk in dreamy mood, as one who saw through 
 
 7
 
 50 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 the ever-wearing texture called ' the veil ' ; 
 while Elijah replied in tones of forced gaiety, 
 that grew out of his intoxicated and blind 
 parental love. 
 
 It was an afternoon in June, and Elijah was 
 in the shop alone, securing the leather uppers to 
 the wooden sole of a clog. Nothing disturbed 
 the silence of the dreamy hour save the ' tap- 
 tap ' of the dogger's hammer and the wild music 
 of the caged bird. Suddenly the hammer ceased, 
 and, looking up, Elijah said : 
 
 ' It's as Owd Tic-tak sez — there's naught like 
 a bit o' music at after all. Go it, owd brid ; it 
 fair mak's a felley leetsome (cheerful) to yer 
 thee. Worchin' (working) to music is better 
 nor worchin' for brass ony day ;' and the ' tap- 
 tap-tap ' of the hammer, as it fell on the leather 
 upper, was once more carried out on the sultry 
 air of the summer afternoon. 
 
 As if Elijah's moralizing were taken for an 
 encore, there came from the throat of the bird 
 another voluptuous burst of song. 
 
 * God bless thee ! thaa's a deal more sense 
 nor some folk as is awlus i' th' dumps. Thaa 
 wakens th' sun i' th' mornin' ; and when he
 
 The Open Cage. 51 
 
 willn'd show his face, thaa mak's sunleet wi' thi 
 song.' 
 
 And once more the notes rose in clearness 
 and swelled in sweetness, until the village street 
 palpitated with the cadences of the bird's music. 
 
 'Aw'll tell thee what, owd songster: aw 
 wouldn't be perticlar to swop places wi' thee — 
 cage an o'. They say as singin' shows a leet 
 heart — an' thaa'rt at it o' day long.' 
 
 Again the song arose, and the close shop 
 was tremulous with the rapture of the im- 
 prisoned minstrel. 
 
 ' Ey dear ! who wouldn't be a brid i' this 
 world ? As Tic-tak sez, aw used to be a bit o' 
 a singer misel' once ; but there's naught to 
 sing abaat naa.' And EHjah raised the corner 
 of his leather apron and wiped a tear from his 
 fast-filling eye; then, pulling himself together, 
 and swallowing his sob, he said : ' But its no use 
 bein' a poor plucked un. Here goes ;' and 
 clearing his throat, he struck up to a well-known 
 tune the old words: 
 
 ' My God, the Spring of all my joy, 
 The Life of my delight.'
 
 52 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 Then, suddenly pausing, he said in muttered 
 tones : ' But aw hav noan ! Nowe — no joy for 
 me naa !' and he once more bent to his task at 
 the clog with an almost vindictive fierceness. 
 
 As though to rebuke him, the bird again 
 took up the strain and volumed forth its song. 
 
 ' Thaa's no tears to smoor (smother) thy 
 song, thaa sees. An', then, thaa cornd help 
 thisel' ; thaa wor made to sing.' 
 
 * Thaa'rt doin' a deal o' talkin' to thisel', 
 'Lijah, aw think.' 
 
 The voice was that of Elijah's wife. She 
 had been standing in the doorway for some little 
 time, unseen by the despondent dogger. 
 
 He looked up, startled, and flushed with 
 shame. He never talked to her as he talked to 
 the bird ; he dared not. She was a rough- 
 gritted woman, and her faith was of the same 
 material. Every morning for fifty years she 
 had prayed, ' Thy will be done ' ; and her 
 prayers were not repetitions, but revelations of 
 her soul. Her love was as deep as Elijah's, 
 only it was more submissive. To her Elijah's 
 rebellion was as hard to bear as the affliction of 
 her little Sam'l. Indeed, these were the two
 
 The Open Cage. 53 
 
 drops of bitterness in her cup ; but one was 
 hemlock, and, as she used to say, ' A back- 
 sliding husband vvor wur (worse) than a dying 
 child.' No wonder, then, that confusion covered 
 Elijah when he knew his wife had overheard his 
 complaint. 
 
 * Sam'l's nobbud restless this afternoon, 'Lijah,' 
 she continued ; ' he wants to come and sit wi' 
 thee a bit. Aw think thaa might fotch him 
 across. He sez it '11 be th' last chance he'll 
 have ;' and the woman turned her face away 
 from her staring husband, and looked towards 
 the distant moors. 
 
 ' He sez what.'*' 
 
 But the woman did not answer. 
 
 * What is it he sez, lass ?' demanded Elijah, 
 rising from his stool and going towards his 
 wife. 
 
 * Oh, he nobbud sez as he'd like to sit wi' 
 thee a bit, that's all.' 
 
 * Then he shall — bless him ! Av/'ll fotch 
 him.' And Elijah went for the boy. 
 
 As he stooped down over the great chair in 
 which Samuel lay propped with pillows, he read 
 an inscription on the little face, all drawn with
 
 54 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 suffering — an inscription final and unmistak- 
 able. Then he staggered, as years before he 
 had staggered at Dene on that May Day after- 
 noon when his sun went down in clouds. 
 
 ' Sam'l, lad, thaa mun stop where thaa art to- 
 day ; thaa'rt too poorly to be moved.' 
 
 ' Nay, dad ! Aw'm feelin' a deal better. 
 Aw want to see th' owd shop once more. 
 Yo mun tak' me this time. Aw'll never ax yo' 
 no more.' 
 
 EUjah raised the boy in his arms and carried 
 him over to the shop, placing him on the old 
 settle whereon he used to spend so many of his 
 early days. Then silence followed — a strange 
 silence. The bird ceased to sing, Elijah lost 
 his communicative mood, a cloud crossed the 
 sun, and the golden bars no longer lighted the 
 floor of the shop. 
 
 S;imuel was twisting a piece of ' tatchin'-end ' 
 round his long, lean fingers, and looking out 
 with dreamy eye on the distant moorland slopes 
 that now lay dark under the sunless sky. 
 Then, turning towards his father, he saw tears 
 fall on the clog at which the good man was 
 working.
 
 The Open Cage. ^^ 
 
 * What arto cryin' abaat, faither ?' asked the 
 lad. 
 
 ' Aw'm noan cryin', Sam'J,' said the man, 
 stooping lower over his work. ' Aw'm gettin' 
 owder, thaa sees, and mi een is noan so good as 
 they used to be ; besides, the sun's a bit breet- 
 some to-day.' 
 
 ' Nay, faither, th' sun's given o'er shinin' — 
 it's covered wi' clouds.' 
 
 * Yi, lad, so it is — aw'd forgetten ;' and the 
 voice was catchy and choked with sobs. 
 
 ' But yo cannot talk, dad ; what's up .^' 
 Elijah was silent. Inwardly he cursed him- 
 self for letting his emotion betray itself in the 
 presence of the lad. He had trained himself to 
 do his weeping when alone, and learned to act 
 the part of the joyous when with his suffering 
 child. Indeed, he had become proficient in this 
 hypocrisy of love, and could give with his eye 
 and voice the lie to the feelings of his heart. 
 On this afternoon, however, he failed in his 
 part. 
 
 ' Nay, dad, don't cry. Is trade bad ? My 
 mother teli'd me owd Jone o' th' Croft had let 
 yo' in for thirty paand.'
 
 56 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 ' Yi ! it's a big loss for a poor man.' 
 ' But folks sez as yo're noan poor, faither.' 
 'Thaa mornd believe all that folks sez, lad.' 
 ' Happen aw'm costin' yo' too mich i' doctor's 
 bills, faither.' 
 
 Elijah threw down the clog and rose from the 
 stool, while strong words fought for speech on 
 his lips. Then, with one great effort of self- 
 repression, he said : 
 
 ' There's no need for thee to trouble thy yed 
 abaat brass, mi lad. Aw've enough to pay for 
 all th' doctors i* England, if thaa wants 'em, and 
 then there'll be sunimat to spare.' 
 
 By this time the south-westerly breeze had 
 cleared the clouds from before the sun, and 
 golden light once more filled the dogger's shop, 
 gilding the edges of the chippings and scintil- 
 lating along the blades of the steel tools that lay 
 around. As it travelled across the walls, even 
 the sombre faces of the teetotal orators seemed to 
 smile a welcome, while the caged bird hopped 
 to its perch and gave back song for sunshine. 
 Samuel's pulse, too, beat more quickly, and, 
 holding up his thin hand, he watched the bars 
 blush as they shone through his wasted fingers,
 
 The Open Cage, 57 
 
 and for the moment lent to them the glow of 
 health. In vain, however, was the light sweet 
 and pleasant to the eyes of Elijah, it only- 
 mocked him in his sadness ; for him the sun 
 was setting — setting while it was yet early 
 day. 
 
 'TriIl-1-l-l-latrill-l-l-l-la.* 
 
 ' Faither, aw feel some sorry for that bird.' 
 
 ' Sorry, lad ? whod for should ta feel sorry — 
 it's plenty to eat, and no lads to cob (stone) it, 
 nor onybody to snare it and get at th' nest — 
 why should ta feel sorry .f** 
 
 ' Aw know haa it feels i' that cage ; aw'm 
 caged misel', yo know.* And the boy moved 
 restlessly in the frame of steel that imprisoned 
 his weakly limbs. ' Aw think a deal abaat birds, 
 faither,' 
 
 ' Thaa thinks a deal o'er mich, lad, abaat lots 
 o' things. Aw tell thee tha's no need to bother 
 thi yed so mich as thaa does.' 
 
 There was a great swell in the bird's song. 
 It was as though the little minstrel, its cage all 
 on fire, translated the sunshine into music — a 
 winged salamander inebriated with the flame. 
 
 8
 
 58 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 * Aw wonder what he's slngin' abaat naa, 
 faither. He's fair tipsy wi' summat.' 
 
 ' Yi, lad, he's tipsy wi' th' sun.' 
 
 ' Open th' cage, then, an' let him get a bit 
 nearer to it.' 
 
 ' Nay, lad, noan so. Li'^ten to't ! By Guy ! 
 but it's grand !' 
 
 The bird sang on. It was as though the 
 celestial harmonies were voicing themselves in 
 its little throat. 
 
 ' If he'd bin loose, faither, and come daan, as 
 other birds do, aw should a welly thought he'd 
 bin up aboon and yerd th' angels sing, and come 
 to tell us what it wor like.' 
 
 ♦ What angels, lad .?' 
 
 ' Them as mi mother reads abaat in Revela- 
 tion — them as sings afoore th' throne, yo know.' 
 
 Elijah did not care for this. To him it was 
 a premonition of the boy's death. It told him 
 that Sam'l was getting near to the world of 
 which he was so strangely talking, and, turning 
 to the boy, he asked him if he were well. 
 
 ' I'm a bit tired o' bein' i' th' cage, dad, that's 
 all ;' and he once more moved his twisted body 
 wearily in his iron frame.
 
 The Open Cage. 59 
 
 Wilder and more deliriously sweet waxed the 
 bird's song. 
 
 ' Aw'll tell yo' what, faither,' said Samuel, his 
 eyes fixed on the cage : ' aw'm noan so sure but 
 birds and angels are th' same. Ony rate, 
 they've both getten wings, an' they both sing, 
 durnd they ?' 
 
 ' Howd thi tung, and talk abaat summat else 
 nor angels,' said Elijah. 
 
 The boy was obedient, but the bird con- 
 tinued, and the sun began his westering course. 
 In a little while the boy broke forth : 
 
 ' Aw say, dad, aw welly think a bird's 
 summat like a soul.' 
 
 *Like a whod.-^' exclaimed Elijah with grow- 
 ing vexation. 
 
 ' Like a soul, yo know — a bit o' one thing 
 and a bit o' t'other.' 
 
 * There's a deal too mich talk abaat souls, 
 lad. Folk's getten bodies as well, and they've 
 to feed 'em, and keep 'em alive. Come along 
 wi' me and have thi baggin' (tea).' 
 
 ' Nay, av/'m noan baan while th' brid's singing 
 i' that feshion. Yer thee ! aw never yerd aught 
 like it afoore.'
 
 6o The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 The bird was singing with all the passion of 
 its native realm — notes wild and glad, tellir.g 
 of dewy sweetnesses and skies of sunshine, of 
 solitudes of moorland and gloom of glen, while 
 in swift measure the caged minstrel passed from 
 paradise to wilderness, and from wilderness to 
 paradise of song. There were notes, too, that 
 told of other realms — strange, mystic notes ; 
 echoes of the chorale of angels, fragments of 
 heavenly minstrelsy ; notes that rose in richer 
 warble, and then died away into sacred silences. 
 As Samuel listened, all the deep, unuttered 
 thoughts, borne in upon him during long years 
 of suffering, found translation. It was as 
 though the air of his life, the refrain of which 
 never left him, yet which he could never 
 retain, was now transposed in full score by the 
 song of the bird. The sweet, sad music of 
 Nature, as well as that of his own heart, began 
 now to be interpreted amid the gloom and dirt 
 of his father's shop. 
 
 *Well, Sam'l, if thaa willn'd let me take 
 thee to thi baggin', aw must be like to leave 
 thee for a bit. Tha'll be o' reight, willn'd 
 ta?'
 
 The Open Cage. 61 
 
 ' Yi— wi' th' brid, faither.' 
 
 It was no uncommon thing for the boy to be 
 left alone. He liked it — liked to sit and look 
 through the window at the great moorlands 
 which he could never climb and roam, and at 
 the great clouds which massed themselves like 
 snowy ramparts beyond their purple ridges. 
 He liked, too, to see the children play in the 
 roadway — children active and healthy, around 
 whose little bodies was no cage of steel ; and 
 though he sighed as he listened to their laughter, 
 he also smiled as he looked out and watched 
 their pranks. 
 
 The sun was now weaving his farewell tints 
 along the tops of the moorlands, and fragments 
 of cloud — lone wanderers of the sky — were 
 slowly sailing towards the western fires. Around 
 the central flame unseen hands were massing 
 cloud portals draped in gold and purple, through 
 which paved paths of sapphire stretched in 
 dreamy distances, and whereon the shadows 
 fell as haunting presences from other worlds. 
 It was a sunset prophetic of a vast beyond, and, 
 as Samuel gazed at it with wondering and 
 longing eyes, he thought of words his mother
 
 62 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 sometimes read to him — * the tabernacle of God 
 that was set in the sun.' 
 
 As the boy looked out at these sunset glories 
 a strange fancy possessed his childish mind — 
 he would free the bird, and let it soar away 
 along the distant vistas where it might hear the 
 angels, and return, perhaps, to sing over again 
 to him their songs. But, alas! he could not 
 touch the cage. Cripple as he was, movement 
 and reach were beyond his powers. 
 
 Tapping at the window, he drew the notice 
 of the boys who played in the square of land 
 before him, and, beckoning them to the door of 
 the shop, bade them remove the cage from the 
 hook in the wall and place it on his knee. 
 
 The bird showed no terror. There was no 
 wild fluttering, no frantic beating against the 
 bars, as Samuel drew aside the wire grating. 
 The little songster nestled towards the lean 
 white hand which he reached out towards it, 
 and let him draw it forth to his own lap. 
 
 ' Av/m baan to set thee loose, little un,' said 
 the boy. Tt's hard work bein' caged, isn't it.-* 
 But thaa's a mate i' me — aw'm caged an' o'.' 
 And again the boy moved in his torturing
 
 The Open Cage. 63 
 
 frame. ' But aw'm baan to let thee go. Happen 
 God 'ill let me go an' o'. It would be grand 
 if aw could go wi' thee ! But if He doesn'd, 
 little bird, thaa mun come back to me, an' teJI 
 me what thaa yers when thaa'rt up aboon. Naa 
 then, off wi' thee !' And so saying he kissed 
 the bird and launched it through the open door 
 of the shop into the deepening blue beyond. 
 
 The boy watched the bird until it became a 
 speck in the distance ; then, dreamily closing his 
 eyes, he slept. And as he slept, God's kindly 
 hand unfastened the hasps of the cage in which 
 he had been imprisoned for so many years. At 
 last he was free. 
 
 In a few minutes Elijah returned from his 
 tea, and, looking round, saw the cage on the 
 shop counter without the bird, and Sam'l, as 
 he thought, asleep. 
 
 Then, as by instinct, the truth dawned on 
 him. The bird had winged its way into the 
 ether, and little Samuel's soul was beyond the 
 sunset — for kindly hands had set both free.
 
 IV. 
 
 THE VIGIL OF DESPAIR. 
 
 That night, as little Samuel lay sheeted in the 
 hush of the spare chamber, and his mother, 
 weary with sorrow, slept on the settle below, 
 Elijah stole across to the shop that he might 
 keep the vigil of his despair alone. Entering, 
 he lighted a candle, and so held it as to scan 
 the dark recesses from which the soul of the 
 child had so lately passed. There was the rude 
 shakedown whereon he had lain, and the book 
 the pages of which he last turned over, while 
 the iron frame, wherein his limbs were so long 
 tortured, and which Elijah so hastily removed 
 in his vain attempts to revive the boy, lay on 
 the floor side by side with the vacant cage of 
 the bird. Grief is the great quickener of 
 memory — at least, so Elijah found it — for as he
 
 The Vigil of Despair. 6^ 
 
 stood with uplifted light, and looked around 
 with eyes of sorrow, there came an awakening 
 in the graveyard of his past. Stones were rolled 
 away from tombs over which flowers had grown, 
 and tones of voice and turns of expression, with 
 many a forgotten trifle, cast off their cerements 
 and came forth. Laughter, lisp, and song — he 
 heard them in the silence ; looks, gladsome and 
 sorrowful — he saw them in the gloom ; reminders 
 of the dead child were everywhere. 
 
 As he wandered, candle in hand, round the 
 shadowed shop, he began to yield to the weak- 
 ness of despair. He saw the mockery of life, 
 then felt its cruelty ; the hollow laughter of 
 one, and the envenomed fang of the other, 
 plaguing him in his sore distress. He put the 
 candle on the bench, and sat down on his 
 stool, the litter of his toil a fit emblem of his 
 dishevelled mind. At his feet lay the frame 
 of irons he had that afternoon taken from the 
 dead body of his boy — the cage in which for so 
 many years the child had been imprisoned — and 
 there, at its side, was the wire prison-house of 
 the now freed bird. Where were their once 
 captives.'' The bird, perchance, nestling in the 
 
 9
 
 66 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 foliage of a neighbouring clough. But the boy 
 — where ? And yet Elijah had heard the 
 preachers at the chapel on the hill ask times 
 often : ' Are not two sparrows sold for a 
 farthing ? And one of them shall not fall on the 
 ground without your Father's notice. Fear 
 not, therefore : ye are of more value than many 
 sparrows.' Fool ever to have listened to such 
 words. The bird was free — free in the greenery 
 of the woods ; the boy dead — dead after years 
 of living death. 
 
 Thus reasoning, his eye again fell on the 
 dead boy's torture- frame, and seizing it, together 
 with the cage of the bird, he trampled both 
 beneath his feet. Nor was he satisfied with 
 this ; for taking up a hammer, he beat them 
 into a shapeless mass, continuing long after their 
 destruction to deliver his blows. 
 
 Though the hour was late, there were neigh- 
 bours who heard the strokes of Elijah's de- 
 molition, and these, alert with the curiosity of 
 rural life, came to their doors, to see in the 
 mellow light of the June midnight the flicker of 
 the candle in the window of the dogger's 
 shop.
 
 The Vigil of Despair. 67 
 
 * He's noan makin' th' lad's coffin, is he ?' 
 asked one. 
 
 ' Nod he ; he's makin' a bit o' o'ertime, more 
 like,' said another. 
 
 ' Nay ; aw think thaa't mistaan. Thaa'U see 
 he'll noan do mich wark afore th' lad's berried.* 
 
 ' But whad's he agate wi' a leet at this time 
 o' neet V 
 
 * Let's go and see. Hooisht ! tread softly.' 
 And they went — curious neighbours all — 
 
 went with silent tread and bated breath, some 
 of them in their ignorance thinking of the 
 wraith of the dead boy, for superstition is slow 
 to die in rural haunts. But they found, as ever, 
 the unexpected — no coffin in course of pre- 
 paration, nor clog in the making, nor did the 
 ghost of the departed child meet their eyes. 
 To their dismay, they saw the bereaved father, 
 maddened with grief, standing, hammer in hand, 
 over a wreck of iron and wire, his tearless eyes 
 burning with a fierce fire, while from his lips 
 fell mutterings which they failed to overhear. 
 
 As the frightened faces of the watchers pressed 
 towards the window, the swealing candle lit up 
 the shop with a corpse-like pallor. Feeble and
 
 68 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 fitful the flicker fell on the ashen fice of Elijah, 
 throwing it into a different cast with each leap 
 and fall. Long shadows stole hither and 
 thither, lurking for a moment in the distant 
 corners, and then, like the cloaked dead, crossing 
 the littered floor. Now they would smite the 
 time-stained walls, pausing and then passing 
 with swift movement, as though to escape the 
 shadows that pursued. Then they would throw 
 their gloom over the grief-smitten man, veiling 
 him and bowing before him, as if to do him 
 homage in his despair. This was whut the 
 prying neighbours saw, and this stirred to speech 
 their rude and excitable imaginations. 
 
 ' He'll loise his v/its,' v.hispered one. 
 
 ' He's lost 'em a'ready, lad, or he'd never 
 smash th' furniture.' 
 
 'He's noan smashin' th' Rirniture. He's 
 nobbud puncin' (kicking) th' clog-irons.' 
 
 * What mun he punce clog-irons for if he 
 wor reight V asked the first speaker. 
 
 ' It's a thaasand pities,' said a woman. ' He 
 wor a day cent chap, wor 'Lijah — as quiet as a 
 kittlin' an' o'.' 
 
 * Them's 'em 'at's awlus worst when they go
 
 The Vigil of Despair. 69 
 
 wrang,' interjected an old crone. ' They bide 
 a deal o' mindin', aw can tell yo'.' 
 
 * Yi, they do. Aar John's wife wor as gentle 
 a lass as broke brade; but when hoo went wrang 
 wi' her first child, hoo wor plaguy rough, aw 
 con tell yo'.' 
 
 ' Let's see : hoo deed, didn't hoo ?' 
 
 * Hoo did, poor lass ! an' th' best as could 
 happen to her an' o'.' 
 
 * Aw feel ill off for 'Lijah, poor lad ! It's a 
 terrible thing to loise a child ; an' little Sammy 
 wor a'most awlus wi' him. But he's better off 
 naa.' 
 
 ' But it's only them as looks on as thinks so. 
 'Lijah noan thinks so, aw back.' 
 ' Nowe ; he doesn'd that.' 
 
 * Little Sam'l wor noan one o' th' sort 'at 
 lives, thaa knows,' said the old crone. ' They 
 tak' th' good uns up aboon to keep 'em fro' 
 spoilin'.' 
 
 ' Yi ! Sam'l were pious like — a bit o'er- 
 mich so for this world.' 
 
 ' Thine ud do wi' a bit more, lass ; he's 
 awlus i' lumber (mischief). But it tak's all 
 soarts to mak' a world.*
 
 -]o The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 * Th' lad had a deal o' larnin',* continued 
 the old crone. ' He'd a yed hke a almalac 
 (almanac). There wor naught he didn't know; 
 an' 'Lijah wor savin' brass for his eddication.' 
 
 ' 'Lijah's never Hke looked up sin' that May 
 Dh' show at Dene,' said the first speaker. 
 
 ' Nowe. Thaa sees he set his mind on th' lad 
 bein' a parson ; an' when he geet his back hurt, 
 an' wor crippled, poor lad ! it were all no use. 
 They noan mak' parsons o' sich like, thaa sees.' 
 
 ' Nowe,' interjected the old crone ; ' they 
 mak' angels on 'em. But as yo' say, 'Lijah's 
 never bin reight sin' th' lad were lamed.' 
 
 ' He's noan goan to chapel mich sin'. They 
 say as he's a infidel naa.' 
 
 ' Not he !' cried the old woman in tones of low 
 indignation. ' He's nobbud i' th' valley. He'll 
 get into th' sunleet i' a bit. Aw've bin where 
 he is misel', but aw get aat agen.' 
 
 * Aw '11 tell yo' whod — aw'm some ill off for 
 him, sithee haa bad he's takin' it.' And the 
 neighbours who thus talked in whispers once 
 more peeped through the window of the shop at 
 the distracted father. 
 
 There he sat, his face buried in his hands.
 
 The Vigil of Despair. 71 
 
 oblivious in the blankness of a great sorrow. 
 His bent form was thrown into relief by the 
 flicker of the now wasted candle, whose tongues 
 of flame became less rhythmic, springing for a 
 moment into pyramids of pale fire, then sinking 
 into the socket, where they spat and hissed as if 
 in protest of their dying light. 
 
 The weird spectacle played on the rude 
 imagination of the watchers. To them, Elijah 
 sat in some world, all his own, where light and 
 darkness fought around him, and where darkness 
 was conquering with each lingering, yet fainter, 
 leap of flame. There he sat, careless as to 
 the conflict, until at last a long, thin shaft shot 
 up from the candle and lit the shop with its 
 momentary ray, to die into a glowing thread, 
 and then consume in smoke, leaving all to 
 the darkness of the night. Then the watching 
 neighbours stole off one by one, and Elijah was 
 left to his vigil of despair. 
 
 And now haunting thoughts followed haunt- 
 ing shadows, grim questioners that revelled in 
 the desolations of his mind, voices from out the 
 darkness that mocked as they whispered their 
 problems in his ear. In troops they came ;
 
 72 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 nor could he silence them ; nor did he care to. 
 They told him God had turned His face away 
 from His gift, that He had despoiled it — flung it 
 back at him marred and broken. They asked 
 him where Heaven's gratitude was, and where 
 its pity, and where the heart of a God who had 
 taken his little one and dashed it against the 
 stones I They sneered at his once simple trust, 
 and turned the texts which he had been taught 
 to trust into a tissue of lies. And then they 
 left him, and there followed in their v/ake a great 
 wind of blasphemy, which, sweeping through 
 him, left him desolate. 
 
 After this he heard another voice, calm, 
 penetrating, as of good utterance — a voice he 
 never afterwards forgot, and which to his dying 
 hour he believed to be a voice : 
 
 * // pleased the Lord to bruise him.^ 
 
 Startled, he looked round. Nothing but th« 
 darkness, and the shadows returning to mock 
 and ask, Where but in darkness could such a 
 God dwell — a God who found pleasure in 
 bruising an innocent child ^ 
 
 And other questioners vexed him. * Were 
 not a father's sins a child's heritage of suffer-
 
 The Vigil of Despair. 73 
 
 Ing? Yea, even to the third and fourth 
 generation.' And Elijah placed himself in the 
 confessional of memory and of conscience that 
 he might recall his life. But no sin of his own 
 could he discover to merit such misfortune ! 
 He had honoured the commandments and 
 kept the faith. He recalled bad fathers whose 
 children were living and healthy, and bad lads 
 who throve and led charmed lives amid the 
 dangers of the factory and exposures of the 
 field. Yet here he was, a good man, whose 
 child was better than himself, and — for what ? 
 And once more round the ruined temple of his 
 soul the sounds of laughter rang, and he groped 
 in the darkness to find that God was gone. 
 
 At last weariness came as an opiate ; nor was 
 his brain haunted with the figments of the 
 night, for sleep was kindly, and he dreamed 
 not. His head pillowed on a roll of leather, 
 his body stretched on the cold flag floor, he 
 passed into that undisturbed darkness which is 
 Nature's kindliest compensation after hours of 
 heaviest strain. 
 
 The glimmer of dawn as it fell through the 
 window of the dogger's shop discovered a scene 
 
 10
 
 74 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 of confusion, strange to an orderly life like that 
 of Elijah. The stool on which he worked was 
 overturned, and surrounded v/ith a litter of 
 tools — hammers, awls, knives, ends of iron, 
 scraps of leather, and rivets of steel and wood. 
 As the gloom on the walls gave way before the 
 growing light, the teetotal orators, fastened in 
 irregular rows, looked out from their soiled and 
 tattered prints with unresponsive eyes, while the 
 upturned face of the sleeping man showed 
 wrinkled lines, moist with the sweat of sorrow. 
 As the morning advanced, golden lights trans- 
 formed both shop and sleeper, filling the one 
 v/ith radiance, and weaving round the head of 
 the other a halo of gold, while a little bird 
 lighted on the sill and trilled its early song. 
 Sun and music roused Elijah from his slumber, 
 and, stretching himself, he slowly brought to 
 mind his surroundings. Then all the keener, 
 because of the suddenness of its return, came 
 his sorrow, and he sav/, as never on the previous 
 day, the blank of his life. 
 
 Rising, he opened the door, and stepped out 
 into the village street. The moors lay dimly in 
 the distance, their slopes yet shadowy, their
 
 The Vigil of Despair. ys 
 
 summits luminous with fiushy bars of palpi- 
 tating light. Beneath a coverlet of mist, white 
 as a cloud, slept the village, and from the tall 
 chimney of the factory thin smoke curled and 
 lost itself in the paling blue. The foliage was 
 motionless, and from the gardens floated the 
 subtle scent of flowers, their chalices moist with 
 dew-tears of the night, soon to be caressed into 
 brightness and gladness by the light of day. 
 In a neighbouring nursery of trees birds were 
 piping occasional notes — heralds of a coming 
 chorus to scatter the silences and announce the 
 morn. Yet the light was not pleasant to the 
 eyes of Elijah, nor did the summer-tide lift and 
 bear away the burden of his heart. 
 
 Crossing the road that divided the shop from 
 his house, he entered, to find his wife quietly 
 following the duties of the morning hour. She 
 was without Elijah's strong sentiment, but her 
 practical mind and strong self-control were 
 never at fault, and where he stumbled she 
 walked steadily, and with a sure foot. She had 
 loved the child no less than he ; indeed, the 
 sorrow which she hid was keener than the 
 sorrow which he flung in part from him in his
 
 76 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 manifested despair. Nature had reversed the 
 qualities : the husband was heart, and the wife 
 was brain. Thus, while Samuel had looked on 
 his mother with an eye of pride, he had nestled 
 towards his father with v/hat is mostly the 
 woman's share in the division of prizes of the 
 household. She thought more of a clean face 
 for her child than a warm kiss from his lips — 
 with the consequence that the kisses had been 
 saved for Elijah. And yet her heart held 
 hidden fires, and she had many a record in her 
 memory, and many a reminiscence, which she 
 was then recalling through the tears of the eyes 
 of her soul. As he entered, they looked each 
 other in the face, and read there the unspoken 
 thought of each other's sorrow. 
 
 For a little vvhile both were silent. Asenath 
 knew Elijah better than he was known to him- 
 self, and waited for the confessions of the night 
 which she felt sure would soon fall unasked for 
 from his lips. Nor did she wait long ; his full 
 heart soon opened its treasure of sorrow at her 
 feet. Slowly, and broken by sobs, he told her 
 how he had destroyed in his despair the iron cage 
 in which the body of little Sam'l was so long
 
 The Vigil of Despair. "]'] 
 
 imprisoned and punished, and with it the cage 
 of the flown bird. Then he spoke of the hard 
 and bitter thoughts which had shadowed his 
 mind — of his unbelief in what * them Methodies ' 
 called Providence ; and, last of all, in the sim- 
 plicity of his sorrow, of the voice out of the 
 darkness which said, ' // pleased the Lord to 
 bruise him^ and how he had given the voice 
 the lie. 
 
 ' Nay, lad, thaa never did — surely !' 
 * Yi, aw did, an' aw'll do it agen.' 
 ' But whod if it wor little Sam'l's voice, 
 'Lijah?' 
 
 ' Little Sam'l's voice — what doesto mean } 
 He's dead, isn't he } He'll talk no more.' 
 
 ' Ey, 'Lijah, aw awl us thought thaa'd more 
 faith nor me. Thaa's done a deal more prayin' 
 an' singin i' thi time, lad, nor ever aw did, and 
 yet thaa tak's on i' this feshion. Doesn'd ta see 
 thaa's getten thi wish naa — th' lad's a preycher, 
 nobbud he's preychin' fro' aboon, and whod thaa 
 yerd wor his first sarmon.* 
 
 Then it dawned on the man that what he 
 heard in the dark hour of sorrow, as he sat dis- 
 consolate in the lonesome shop, was the voice of
 
 78 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 the boy, who from the bosom of the great 
 Father told the secret of that Father's love to 
 the sad-hearted father who was yet to live his 
 •little v/hile.' 
 
 • Let's go up to th' chamber and look at him, 
 lass.' 
 
 There lay the boy, sheeted and silent, the 
 twisted form of his frame lifting the covering 
 into irregular and uneven folds, but from his 
 face the look of care was gone, and round his 
 brow was the crown of peace. And then a sun- 
 beam stole in between the blind and the jamb of 
 the window which it veiled— -a soft, pure beam 
 from the gates of the morning, from the gates 
 that told of entrance to eternal day — and it lay 
 on the face of the child and so transformed it 
 that it shone as the face of an angel. 
 
 And Elijah drew down the face-cloth as if to 
 hide the glory that excelleth, and went below to 
 begin another day's labour with a better mind 
 and brighter hope.
 
 V. 
 
 LITTLE SAMUEL'S SUBSTITUTE. 
 
 ' Whose is that little lad lookin' into th' 
 garden, 'Lijah?' 
 
 * Th' new vicar's son ;' said Elijah, continuing 
 to eat his noonday meal. 
 
 ' Aw'll tell thi whod : he favors (resembles) 
 aar Sam'l ; he does, forshure.' 
 
 ' Aw've thought as mich misel', lass,' said the 
 man. 
 
 ' Then, thaa's seen him afoore, hasto V 
 
 ' Yi ; he come i' th' shop t'other day for 
 some tatchin-end for his whip.' 
 
 * Thaa never said naught, 'Lijah ?' 
 *Nowe, lass, aw never said naught.' 
 
 The truth was, since the death of their son 
 they had seldom spoken to one another of 
 children, for mention of them brought tears to
 
 8o The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 the eyes of Elijah and heaviness into the heart 
 of Asenath. Each knew the other's sorrow, 
 and was slow to disturb it, yet each longed to 
 talk with the other of that which they dared 
 not broach. This was the cause of Elijah's 
 silence concerning the visit of the vicar's son, 
 and now the boy himself had come to break the 
 spell. 
 
 Only a few days before he stood, with curious 
 eyes, outside the dogger's shop, watching Elijah 
 draw his tatchin-end with slow and vigorous 
 sweep, lost in wonder at what to him was a 
 novel craft. Taken with the kindly look that 
 lit the workman's face, the boy next moved 
 towards the open door, and, gaining heart, asked 
 what it was at which he laboured. 
 
 ' It's a clog, little un ; onyroad, it will be 
 when it's feshioned. But thaa'rt no v;iser, aw 
 see,' said Elijah, as he watched the look of 
 ignorance on the boy's face. ' A clog, thaa 
 knows, is to keep folk feet warm. We all wear 
 'em i' these parts, little uns like thee an' o'. 
 But who might ta be.'" 
 
 The boy blushed, and, though not able 
 to follow the vernacular of the dogger, he
 
 Little Samuel's Substitute. Bi 
 
 read with a child's instinct its meaning, and 
 said : 
 
 ' My father's the new vicar, you know.' 
 
 * Nay, lad, that's just what aw didn't know 
 till thaa tell'd me. And where might yore 
 faither come fro', if it's a fair question ?' 
 
 ' From Norfolk,' said the boy. ' That's ever 
 so far away. There was the sea and boats 
 where we lived, and I used to play with the 
 fishermen. I had a boat — Jack Kemp made it 
 for me. But there's no sea to sail it on here, so 
 I take it to the water by the mill.' 
 
 ' Bless thi little heart ! Come here an' sit 
 agen me. Aw once had a lad like thee. Thaa 
 favors him and o'. Sit thi daan, aw tell 
 thi, an' make thisel* at whom.' 
 
 * And where is your little boy ?* asked the 
 child with growing confidence. 
 
 'He's up aboon,' replied Elijah. 
 
 * Is it a long way off?' — for the boy under- 
 stood not Elijah's tongue. 
 
 ' Nay, lad, aw durnd know. Sometimes it 
 seems as if it were, and sometimes it doesn'd. 
 But thaa mun ax thi faither ; he should know 
 better nor me.* 
 
 II
 
 82 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon* 
 
 ' Does my father know where upabcon is ? 
 asked the boy with some uncertainty. 
 
 * Well, lad, he ought to. Up aboon is 
 nobbud another name for heaven.' 
 
 A ray of consciousness lit up the boy's face, 
 ahd, coming to the dogger's side, he said : 
 
 ' Then, your little boy is dead V 
 
 ' Thaa has it naa,' was Elijah's sad reply. 
 
 ' I have a 'brother in heaven, but I never saw 
 him ; he died before I was born, but they call 
 me after him.' 
 
 ' And what's that, little un?' 
 
 * Percy. What did they call your little boy?' 
 *Sam'l.' 
 
 ' Was he ever naughty .'" 
 
 ' Never, lad.' 
 
 ' What a fiinny boy ! Father says I'm often 
 naughty.' 
 
 ' Happen yo're better for 't. Onyroad, yo'll 
 live longer. There's naught like a bit o' devil- 
 ment at after o' ; it like shows as chilter are 
 gradely weel.* 
 
 ' I can't tell what you say.' 
 
 ' Better as yo' shouldn't, lad. Aw'm nobbud 
 talking.'
 
 Little Samuel's Substitute. 8 -i 
 
 * May I come again, please ?* 
 
 ' Yi, as oft as yo' like. But yo' mun ax 
 yore faither first. Aw'm noan o' yore lot, yo' 
 know.' 
 
 The boy looked perplexed. 
 
 * Aw mean aw'm noan o' yore sect, yo' know. 
 Aw noan belong to th' Church. Aw'm a 
 Methody, yo' know. Happen yore faither 
 willn'd let yo' come and see me when he knows. 
 But yo' mun ax him.' 
 
 ' My father will let me come and see you if 
 you are a good man,' was the boy's fi-ank 
 reply. 
 
 Such was Elijah's introduction to the vicar's 
 son. Of this, however, his wife knew nothing, 
 for he dared not speak of it, lest he frayed the 
 old wound so long in healing. And now the 
 boy was standing at the garden gate, under the 
 keen eye of Asenath, who already traced in his 
 face a likeness to their dead child. 
 
 ' 'Lijah,' said the woman, ' aw think aw'll go 
 an* speak to th' lad. He looks fair longin' 
 at th' flaars. Happen he wants one/
 
 84 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 And Asenath went down the garden-path to 
 where the child was standing. 
 
 * Doesto want a flaar ?' said she. 
 
 * Oh, please may I have one ?' cried the boy. 
 ' We had lots in Norfolk, but there are none at 
 the vicarage here, 1 do so want to go back, to 
 where the flowers are.' 
 
 ' Come inside, mi lad, an' aw'll find thi some 
 flaars, such as they are, tha knows, for it's too 
 wet and cowd to grow mony here.* And, 
 opening the gate, she led him along the path, on 
 each side of which blushed those stars of earth 
 on which he longed to look. 
 
 This garden was the child of a former genera- 
 tion, and as fragrant with memories as it was 
 with scent of flowers and simples. Many a 
 plant and bush had been set by hands now lying 
 under the mould, their perennial life reversing 
 the sentiment of Hebrew poesy, and telling of 
 man that fadeth, and of a herb and flower that 
 endured through all generations. Elijah used 
 to say that ' th' moniments (tombstones) o' 
 their family were noan i' th' chapel yard, but 
 amang th' trees and flaars o' their own gardin.' 
 And in quiet hours he would wander amid its
 
 Little Samuel's Substitute. 85 
 
 little zone of vegetation and think of his dead 
 who had their resurrection with each springtide, 
 and their life of companionship with each re- 
 current summer. To him this was more vivid 
 and sacred than graved escutcheon or mural 
 tablet. The story of Elijah's ancestry lay in 
 his garden, and jealously he preserved it. 
 
 Taking his hand, the woman led the timid 
 boy along the path towards the cottage door. 
 On the way, however, they came to a plot of 
 ground glowing with geraniums, and in the 
 midst of which a sweetbrier grew, mingling its 
 intoxicating scents with the sea of passionate 
 colour that waved around. 
 
 ' 1 used to have a little garden like that in 
 Norfolk,' said the boy. 
 
 ' Bless thee !' was Asenath's reply. For that 
 little patch of garden had been her boy's — nay, 
 it was his still, called by his name, and always 
 spoken of as ' little Sam'l's bed.' Before he was 
 crippled he used to tend it with his toy spade, 
 and afterwards, during the long summer days 
 and evenings, he would sit near it, scenting the 
 sweetbrier and delighting his eye on the 
 colours of the scattered flowers. And now the
 
 S6 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 boy at her side had, in part, claimed it. What 
 was this but a link to bind her by one living to 
 him that was dead ? 
 
 As they stood and watched the swaying brier, 
 and the undulating sea of colour that sur- 
 rounded it, Percy felt the woman's hand tighten 
 in its grip of his own. Looking up into her 
 face, he saw the shadow there, and he wondered 
 how it was in an hour so bright and in a place 
 so beautiful Asenath should look so sad. Little 
 did he think that for the moment he had robbed 
 the brier of its fragrance and the geraniums of 
 their scarlet bloom. Yet it was even so, for the 
 woman recalled the last child-hand she clasped, 
 and the last child-voice she heard, beside the 
 very flowers before which they were now 
 standing. 
 
 Coming to herself, she said : 
 
 * Come into th' haase an' see 'Lijah. Thaa 
 knows him, durnd yo ; it's him as thaa wor 
 talkin' to i' th' shop. He gave thi some tatchin- 
 end for thi whip, thaa knows. Come along, 
 he'll be fain to see thi. Don't be feard.' And 
 the boy walked along with the woman towards 
 the house.
 
 Little Samuers Substitute. ^J 
 
 ' Here's thi little friend, 'Lijah,' said Asenath. 
 Then, turning to the child, she whispered, ' Go 
 to him, that's a good lad.' 
 
 Percy walked up to where Elijah sat and put 
 out his hand ; then he looked up into the 
 seamed and sorrowful face to be kissed. But 
 the strong man turned away his head, and the 
 boy was afraid. 
 
 'He'll kiss thee in a bit,' said Asenath. 
 ' He's noan so weel just naa ; but he's taken to 
 thee, for o' that. Hasn't ta, 'Lijah.?' And the 
 man motioned assent. 
 
 The boy's eyes now began to wander round 
 the spacious kitchen in which he found himself. 
 He looked long and intently at the flaring 
 Christmas almanacs issued by rival tradesmen, 
 and which as yet had not been removed from 
 the walls. He viewed the heavy, highly- 
 polished furniture, the great chair and settle, 
 and eight-day clock that stood sentinel-like in 
 the distant corner of the room. His curious 
 gaze played around the pot figures and brass 
 ornaments ranged along the chimney - shelf. 
 He saw, too, the black cross-beams that carried 
 the chamber floor, and irom which were strung
 
 88 The Sien of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 'ti 
 
 the hams and flitches which Elijah called ' th' 
 bonniest picters ovall.' At last he caught sight 
 of a toy gun hanging from a nail behind the 
 door. In a moment his reserve was gone, he 
 was himself, and, clapping his hands, he cried : 
 
 ' Oh, a little gun ! Whose is it ?' 
 
 Poor boy ! he knew not the painful wound 
 those words made in the heart of the man and 
 woman whom he so innocently questioned. 
 Asenath looked at Elijah, who was looking 
 vacantly on the floor. Both were silent, and 
 the boy, whose quick instinct told him some- 
 thing was wrong, began to cry. 
 
 ' Tell him, lass, tell him !' said Elijah. 
 ' He'll hav to know some time, an' he mut as 
 weel know naa.' 
 
 Then Asenath drew Percy to her side and 
 told him the sad story of little Samuel's life — 
 told it all, and only as a mother could tell it ; 
 and when she finished he put his arms round 
 her and kissed her, and the woman wept, and 
 the frozen tears were thawed by a child's 
 embrace, for one had come near to her who, 
 while not her own, had brought her own the 
 nearer.
 
 Little Samuel's Substitute. 89 
 
 ' Naa, lass, we con talk abaat aar own,' said 
 Elijah. And ever afterwards their tongues 
 were loosed to one another on the memory of 
 the boy Samuel. 
 
 'Would ta like to look at his potograf?' 
 asked Asenatb. And, the boy assenting, she 
 took down an album from a chest of drawers. 
 
 Opening it on the table before him, she 
 turned over the pages until she came to one 
 well thumbed and tear-stained, on which were 
 three crude samples of the photographer's 
 art. 
 
 ' That's him when he wor a babby,' said she. 
 ' He wor taken on mi knee, an' 'Lijah stannin' 
 at th' back on us. Thaa wor some praad that 
 day, 'Lijah. Doesto remember ? It wor Dene 
 Fair. An' that,' said the woman, pointing to 
 another, * wor taken when he wor five year 
 owd. He wor as bonny a lad then as thaa art, 
 Percy, an' as straight an' strappin' an o'.* 
 
 Then, after a pause, she continued : 
 
 * An' this v/or th' last he ever had ta'n. He 
 wor a cripple then. Sithee, haa his yed's daan 
 o' his little shoulders. But he's o' reight naa, 
 bless him 1' 
 
 12
 
 90 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 ' Yi, he's o' reight, lass. But aw'd fain ha' 
 kept him.' 
 
 The little fellow took in the story with 
 wondering ears. It was his initiation into the 
 temple of domestic sorrow, and he never after- 
 wards forgot it. Henceforth to him there was 
 a halo of sacredness around the lives of Elijah 
 and Asenath. 
 
 ' Come along o'er to th' shop wi' me, Percy, 
 an' we'll see what we con find for yo',' said 
 Elijah. 
 
 ' Yi ; an' durnd forgeet to come back an' 
 see me, and come to-morn — it's bakin' day, an' 
 aw'll make thee a butter-cake.' 
 
 So Elijah and Percy left Asenath to her house- 
 hold work, and all through the hours of that 
 afternoon the old man and the boy talked, the 
 one hammering away at his clogs, interrupted 
 now and again by chance callers, the other 
 ' rootin',' as Elijah called it, among scraps ot 
 leather and iron, and ' messin' ' his hands with 
 wax and blacking. It was new life to the boy, 
 and he revelled in it ; and to Elijah it was a 
 reawakening. 
 
 That evening, in the large room at the
 
 Little Samuel's Substitute. 91 
 
 vicarage, Mr. Denby and his wife listened to 
 the story of little Samuel told with all the 
 vividness and truthfulness of a child ; and when 
 Percy finished, his father drew his hand across 
 his eyes, and said, ' My dear, that is what I call 
 a story of the heart,' while she to whom he 
 spake drew her boy closer to her side as the 
 evening shadov^s fell. And as those shadows 
 fell in the homely kitchen of the dogger, Elijah 
 and his wife talked of the little fellow whom 
 God had sent as the substitute of the lost one. 
 
 *An' thaa'U bake him his cake to-morn, 
 Asenath ?' said Elijah. 
 
 'Aw will, lad, aw con tell thee, if aw live.* 
 * An* thaa'll bake it same road as thaa baked 
 little SamTs.?' 
 
 ' Same road, lad, an' th' same soart.' 
 ' Yi, av/ would like it to be as like as thaa 
 con mak' it. Somehaa Sam'l doesn'd seem to be 
 so far off v/hen yon lad's near. Th' owd shop's 
 leeted up wi' sunshine sin' he begun o' comin' 
 into 't, an' his ways, thaa knows, are so like 
 Sam'l's.' 
 
 ' They are, forshure,'
 
 92 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 * Happen his mother wirnd let him eyt thi 
 butter-cakes,' 
 
 * Hoo will if hoo's a mother — an* aw welly 
 think hoo is, for th' lad has th' ways ov a lad 
 'at's weel mothered ; yo' can soon tell, yo' 
 know.' 
 
 ' Thaa'rt a quick-witted un, lass, an* no 
 mistak' ! Come on, let's sleep on't.' And v/ith 
 a lighter heart they climbed the stairway to the 
 chamber above. 
 
 There were two famous days in the mono- 
 tony of the Heatherlow week — Monday and 
 Thursday. On the former every doorway seethed 
 with steam and smelt of suds, emitting sounds 
 of mangles and wringers, as though in protest of 
 the strain to which they were put by strong- 
 armed housewives. Women with bare and 
 shiny arms would stand, their tucked-up skirts 
 exposing their stockinged ankles and clogged 
 feet, emptying their ' dolly-tubs ' into the 
 channels, with scarce time for joke or passing 
 news, v/hile on every spare piece of land the 
 crossed lines of rope would sag with the drying 
 folds of linen, grotesque articles of under-
 
 Little Samuel's Substitute. 93 
 
 clothing unblushingly flaunting in the drying 
 wind. Throughout these days ' th' childer 
 were awlus i' th' gate,' and at evening the men 
 thronged the public-house, for, however fine and 
 warm the weather, the house was clammy, the 
 floor sloppy, and the good-wife in an ill frame 
 of mind. 
 
 But on Thursdays it was otherwise. Then 
 the fire burned brightly, and the heated oven 
 warmed the spacious kitchens in which the 
 people lived. Towards evening appetising 
 odours stole forth, and whetted many a 
 wanderer's palate as he passed the open door. 
 Children hurried home from school eager for 
 their ' baggin',' not forgetful that it was the feast 
 of the v/eek. All along the stone floor the 
 cooling loaves and cakes would stand in regi- 
 mental order, while many a little finger was 
 thrust in to filch a currant when the mother's 
 back was turned. Then the hot * mouffins ' 
 (cakes) were drawn from heated oven-plates, 
 and split and buttered, to be washed down 
 hungry throats with sweetened cups of tea. 
 Thursday evening found Heatherlow in a happy 
 mood — even grumblers held their peace as
 
 94 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 they drew their chairs towards the groaning 
 boards. 
 
 Asenath had been busy all the day. She 
 prided herself on her baking. With her, 
 mix.iig and kneading were solemn duties. She 
 knew how to temper her oven to a degree, and 
 her flour and yeast were proportioned with 
 mathematical precision, and the bread she made 
 always waited on appetite, and on digestion, 
 too. To and fro she moved with nimble steps 
 that kept time to the clatter of tins and cHck of 
 opening and closing oven-door, her face and 
 arms (lushed with the heat from the fire, and 
 big drops of perspiration moistening her brow, 
 while over the great kitchen floated the incense 
 of newly-baked bread. Just as she was turning 
 a tin of cakes, the doorway darkened, and, look- 
 ing up, she saw the vicar's little son watching 
 her every act with expectant gaze. 
 
 'Bless thee! — is it thee, Percy? Come in. 
 Thaa'rt as welcome as th' flaars i' May. Sit 
 thee daan ; thi cake 'II be ready soon. There's 
 one for thi to eyt wi' me and 'Lijah, and one 
 for thi to tak' whom. We know haa to bake
 
 Little Samuel's Substitute. 95 
 
 bread i' Heatherlow, whatever else. Yi, fit for 
 th' Queen, if hoo eyts aught as plain.' 
 
 The boy came into the room, and sat down 
 by the window, where the sun was playing 
 fantastic tricks among the rich clusters of 
 flowering plants that filled the sill. The little 
 chair on which he sat was framed on rockers, 
 and to and fro he swung himself in rhythmic 
 oscillation, talking the while, and following the 
 movements of Asenath. 
 
 'Did Samuel like cakes, Mrs. Holt.'*' asked 
 he at last, as he took his eye from the little gun 
 that hung behind the door. 
 
 ' He did afoore he were lamed, Percy, but at 
 after he never took to his meat. Like as he 
 wor awlus ailin', poor lad! 'Lijah and me 
 had to get him relishes (appetising morsels or 
 dainties), and then, as often as not, he never 
 bote his baggin' (never touched his food).' 
 
 ' And did you have a doctor to him, Mrs. 
 Holt.?' 
 
 ' Doctor, didto say ? Yi, half a dozen ; an' 
 they fair punished him an' o'. But it wor 
 all no use : he geet wur' i 'stead o' better. But 
 say no more abaat him naa, Percy ; here's 'Lijah
 
 96 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 comiii*, an' it 'li nobbud upset him if we talk 
 abaat th' Jad afoore him.' 
 
 ' So thaa's come to thi tay, hasto, Percy ?" 
 asked Elijah, as he came into the kitchen and 
 saw the boy seated by the flower-filled windows. 
 ' Aw thought happen thi faither v/ouldn'd let 
 thi come to poor folk like us.' 
 
 * Father says they say you have plenty of 
 money, Mr. Holt.' 
 
 ' Well, tell thi faither it's all bin worked for. 
 It's noan come, as some folk does, wi' doin' 
 naught.' 
 
 * Howd thi din, 'Lijah, an' let th' lad alone. 
 He's nobbud tellin' thee what he's yerd. Come 
 on, Percy ; draw up thi cheer and hav' some 
 tay.' 
 
 The boy sat down before the table, while 
 Asenath filled his mug with tea. It was a 
 china mug, and of rare device, a white shield on 
 a crimson ground, bearing an inscription in 
 letters of gold. For months it had been hidden 
 away with other treasures too sacred for the 
 common use, but in honour of Percy it once 
 more saw the light. His eye was at once 
 caught with the pattern and name, and, in
 
 Little Sainuers Substitute. 97 
 
 raising it to his lips, he read out, half aloud and 
 half to himself. 
 
 Samuel Holt. 
 
 :~^ 
 
 Elijah and Asenath were silent ; the man 
 looking out into the garden, where the wind was 
 scattering the petals of the flowers, while the 
 woman turned towards the firelight, where she 
 saw a long-missed face. 
 
 13
 
 i 
 
 ELIJAH INTRODUCES THE VICAR 
 TO HIS PARISHIONERS.
 
 I 
 
 ELIJAH INTRODUCES THE VICAR 
 TO HIS PARISHIONERS. 
 
 Mr. Den by, the new vicar, whose little son 
 had made such friends of Elijah and Asenath, 
 called in one morning to interview the dogger, 
 determined to satisfy himself as to the company 
 the young hopeful was keeping in his spare 
 moments in this his new home. 
 
 ' Good - morning,' said he, entering, and 
 addressing the man who was bending low over 
 his work. * Are you Mr. Holt .?' 
 
 ' Well, aw durnd know for th' " Mister." 
 We durnd use handles to aar names i' these 
 parts.* 
 
 'Then your name is Holt, I suppose.'*' 
 
 ' Yi, it used to be, but they nobbud co' me 
 'Lijah naa.'
 
 102 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 * Elijah — yes. Well, it's a good name. Do 
 you know what it signifies.'*' 
 
 * Hard wark, an' plenty on't — leastways, 
 that's what it signifies to me ;' and, without 
 looking up at the vicar, Elijah continued at his 
 task. 
 
 ' But it has another signification : it stands 
 for " the strong Lord." ' 
 
 * Aw didn't know. But then, yo' see, aw'm 
 noan paid to be larned in scripter, as yo' are.' 
 
 * Just so. But do you ever go to hear those 
 who are.'" 
 
 * Aw've bin a bit i' mi time. But yo' mut 
 as weel know aw'm noan o' yore lot. Aw go 
 to th' chapel on th' hill yonder — aw'm a 
 Methody.' And Elijah looked up in the vicar's 
 face with all the defiance and independence of 
 the valley of which he was a native. 
 
 * A Methodist, are you .'' Then we'll shake 
 hands ; my father was a Methodist, and I 
 always love them for his sake.' 
 
 ' Then haa is it yo're not a Methody and o', 
 if yore faither wor.'" asked Elijah in surprise. 
 
 'Was your father a Methodist.^' queried the 
 vicar.
 
 Elijah introduces the Vicar. 103 
 
 ' Nov/e,' was the short and sullen answer. 
 *Then why are you one?' 
 ' Because aw thought aw'd mend a bit on th' 
 owd chap's ways.' 
 
 * Just so ; and don't you think I could mend 
 on my father's ways.^' laughingly asked the 
 vicar. 
 
 * There's no mendin' on Methodies,' was 
 Elijah's summary rejoinder ; ' they're at th' top, 
 aw con tell yo', an' they'll tak some beatin'.' 
 
 The vicar broke into a hearty laugh. He 
 had only been six weeks in the parish, and at 
 first the rude independence of the folks greatly 
 irritated him, coming, as he did, from the 
 eastern counties. But he v/as learning to take 
 a keen interest in this strangely original type of 
 character, and entering with zest into its blunt 
 straightforwardness and ready wit. Elijah's 
 answer was to his manly mind. 
 
 'Then your father was a Churchman, I 
 suppose ?' 
 
 * No we, he worn'd a Churchman.' 
 
 * A Baptist r 
 
 ' What ! a dipper, do yo' mean ? Nowe ; 
 yo're wrang agen.'
 
 104 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 * Well, what was he, then ?' 
 
 * He wor naught.' 
 
 ' I never heard of that sect before,' said the 
 vicar. 
 
 ' Yo' soon will. There's mony o' them sort 
 i' these parts, aw con tell yo'.' 
 
 ' What is their creed ?' 
 
 ' They haven't getten' noan.* 
 
 * Then where do they worship .f"' 
 
 ' Oh, at th' public-haase — at th' Sheaf and 
 Sickle up the street yon.' 
 
 * Ah, I begin to see what you mean. Yes, I 
 am afraid there are a good many of that sort, as 
 you call them, in this parish.' 
 
 Now came a pause — an awkward pause. 
 Who was to speak next.'' EHjah was too 
 proud, and the vicar knew not what to say. 
 At last he turned to Elijah, and said : 
 
 ' I called to thank you for your kindness to 
 my little boy. He often talks about you and 
 your wife. You have no little ones, I think. 
 They will be grown up now, I suppose ,^' 
 
 A film came over Elijah's eyes, and his throat 
 filled so that he could not answer the kindly- 
 voiced question of the vicar.
 
 Elijah introduces the Vicar. 105 
 
 Mr. Denby, with his quick, gentlemanly 
 instinct, saw his mistake, and, looking round 
 the shop, fixed his eye on the engravings of the 
 old teetotal orators pasted on the wall. 
 
 * You have Gough here, I see, and Lees, and 
 Livesey, too. These will be your heroes, Mr. 
 Holt?' 
 
 ' Yi ; aw've yerd some on 'em, an' aw 
 believe i' all on 'em, dead an' alive. Av/ wor 
 so ooined (punished) wi' a drunken faither 
 misel' that aw made up mi mind aw'd never 
 touch a drop o' drink as long as aw'd breath i' 
 mi body, an' aw never have ; an' there's a mony 
 wet uns i' aar trade, aw con tell yo'.' 
 
 * Many what.'*' 
 
 ' Wet uns — felleys that's fond o' their ale.' 
 ' They call you a dogger, I think. I never 
 saw a shoe of the kind you make before I came 
 to this parish. Are they warmer than leather 
 soles .?' And so saying, the vicar took one up 
 in his hands and carefully looked at it. ' Wooden 
 bottoms, I see, edged with iron. Heavy to 
 wear, I should think. Are they not .?' 
 
 * Not to them as has never worn naught else,' 
 was the simple reply. 
 
 14
 
 io6 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 ' You have a great many in for repairs, have 
 you not?' said the vicar, looking round. 
 
 ' Yi ; it's a throng time just naa.' Then, 
 after another pause : ' There's a deal o' char- 
 acter in a clog, Mr. Denby. Folk soon wear 
 'em into th' shap' o' thirsels.' 
 
 The vicar confessed ignorance as to Elijah's 
 meaning. 
 
 ' Why, it's i' this road. When aw see haa a 
 clog's worn aw con tell th' character o' th' chap 
 as wears it. Do yo' see? Naa, there's a pair 
 yonder,' and Elijah pointed with his hammer to 
 two clogs on the counter. * Them belongs to 
 a tramp weaver. He's a stranger i' these parts. 
 Aw never seed him afoore last neet, and aw 
 know naught on him ; but aw con tell yo' what 
 kind of a felley he is. Look here,' and Elijah 
 slipped the clog over his hand, and held it up 
 for the vicar's inspection. ' Them heels is 
 daan on th' inside ; that shows as he's knock- 
 kneed. Them toes is ill worn, so yo' may 
 tak' it he's noan a chap as looks mich at th' 
 stars. That sole's split, an' it hasn't bin split 
 latly, so yo' may mak' up yore mind he hasn't 
 got mich brass ; for noan on 'em like a split
 
 Elijah introduces the Vicar. 107 
 
 clog ; as they say abaat here, " it sucks watter 
 an' chews pavin' stones." An' then yon nobbud 
 to luk at it, and yo'll see it favors a tramp. 
 Sithee ! what a shaffling look it has I' And 
 finishing his discourse, Elijah threw down the 
 clog in disgust. 
 
 * Then your clogs are books, in which you 
 read strange matters, Mr. Holt ?' 
 
 ' Summat o' that sort,' replied Elijah. 
 ' There's a deal o' wisdom in 'em. Naa, there's 
 a pair there agen yore feet ; they've tan him 
 as owns 'em a deal oftener to th' public-haase 
 nor them shoon as yo' wear has taken yo' to 
 th' church — an' that's sayin' a deal. Look at 
 'em ! Their shap' 'ill tell yo' him as wears 'em 
 doesnd walk straight. An' them next to 'em 
 belongs to a punser.' 
 
 ' What is a punser — a trade followed in the 
 factory ?' 
 
 ' Nay, they like foller it all o'er. Sometimes 
 they do a bit i' th' haase ; then th' wife's shins an' 
 th' furniture come in for't. Sometimes they try 
 it on i' th' street wi* th' bobby ; then they go 
 to Preston. There's a good deal goes on i' th'
 
 io8 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 football field when they mistak' one another's 
 legs for th' leather.' 
 
 ' Then it's not a trade?' asked the perplexed 
 vicar. 
 
 * Yo' con call it what yo'n a mind. Some 
 on 'em larn it up at th' Sheaf and Sickle.' 
 
 * You don't mean to say that the people kick 
 one another with those iron-shod shoes?' said 
 Mr. Denby, the truth beginning to dawn on a 
 mind altogether ignorant of these customs of 
 the new parish. 
 
 * Yo' have it naa,' said Elijah. 
 
 * Impossible !' 
 
 * There's another pair o* clogs yonder as 
 peyles (bruises) a woman's shins welly every 
 Saterday neet, an's done it for more nor 
 fifteen year. What done yo' think o' that, 
 naa?' And Elijah reached forth the articles, 
 and pushing them towards the vicar, said : 
 * Tak' a fair look at 'em ; them's bruisers — 
 them is ; fit for Madam Tassau's.' 
 
 The vicar drew back. 
 
 *Yo've no need to be fear'd on 'em as 
 lonpf as he's noan wearin' 'em, an' yo're noan i' 
 his gate.'
 
 Elijah introduces the Vicar. 109 
 
 The vicar handled the ponderous shoon, at 
 first gingerly, then with the fascination that 
 weaves itself round instruments of torture. He 
 looked with riveted eye on the heavy wooden 
 soles — the sharp iron plates and the large nails 
 with which they were studded. He raised 
 them, turned them over, and ran his delicate 
 finger along their keen edges. He thought of 
 their force as missiles hurled through space, and 
 multiplied that force as he imagined them 
 battering rams on the end of a giant's foot — 
 battering rams on a woman's flesh, too. Then, 
 in disgust, he threw them down, and turning to 
 Elijah said : ' Why do you repair them ^ It's 
 worse torture than the inquisition.' 
 
 ' Aw've mended 'em for th' last time. Aw 
 nobbud said to my missus, when th' woman 
 brought 'em last neet, as aw'd never mend 'em 
 no more.' 
 
 * The woman brought them, did she V 
 
 * Yi ; hoo awlus does. Aw'll tell yo* whod, 
 Mr. Denby, there's no measurin' some women's 
 love. Th' misses said to her : " What ! thaa'rt 
 bringin' thi tormentors agen !" and hoo nobbud 
 went red like, and left 'em on th' caanter, and
 
 I lo The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 said as hoo'd call for 'em when they wor 
 mended.' 
 
 * And why does she live with such a brute?' 
 
 ' Naa yo' ax a question it 'ud take a long 
 while to tell yo'. But yo'U find aat summat 
 abaat 'em afoore yo've bin so long i' th' parish.* 
 
 ' Well, go on, Mr. Holt ; you are intro- 
 ducing me to my parishioners in a very novel 
 manner, I must say. Whose are these.'*' and 
 the vicar took up a pair lying on the far end of 
 the counter. 
 
 *Them.'* Why, him as wears 'em hasn't 
 paid for 'em. He's one o' those sort as never 
 pays for naught he gets. He's noan baat 
 brass noather, but he believes noan i' givin' 
 it fresh air. He's a close-fisted un, is ovvd 
 Thew !' 
 
 ' Is that his name ?' 
 
 ' He wor kessened (christened) Methuselah, 
 but he never gets naught but Thew. They 
 called him by th' reight name, for aw think he's 
 never baan to dee — an' there's plenty on th' 
 watch for his berry in', aw con tell yo'. There's 
 noan so mony tears shed o'er them as has brass — 
 leastways, it's so i' this country. But he's sin
 
 Elijah introduces the Vicar. 1 1 1 
 
 a good mony on 'em aat — an' he's noan gone 
 hissel' yet.' 
 
 ' Do I understand you to say that " Thew," 
 as you call him, pays for nothing he purchases?* 
 
 ' Not unless yo' mak' him. An' when yo'n 
 to throw as mich brass after a chap as he owes 
 yo', an' th' bother i' th' bargain, an' when he's 
 an awkward chap wi' a nasty tongue like Thew, 
 why, yo' end i' leavin' him to hissel'. Jack 
 Wilki'son — him as is bum-bailie (bailiff who 
 distrains for debt) — were coming aat o' th' 
 prayer-meetin' at aar chapel one neet, and owd 
 Thew come up to him amang all th' folk and 
 afoore th' parson an' o', an' said : " Aw'll gi' 
 thee thi prayer. Jack, ' God be merciful to me, 
 a sinner.' " " Haa's that ?" axed Jack. " Because 
 thaa't a publican — an' wur." Do yo' see? Jack 
 had just caanty courted th' owd chap for his 
 grocery score at Bond's.' 
 
 ' Then Thew is in your fold — not mine ?' 
 laughingly interrogated the vicar. 
 
 ' Yi ; but there's some daan at yore shop 
 as Jack Wilki'son has to look at naa an' agen. 
 They're noan aboon runnin' long bills an' for- 
 gettin* to sattle 'em an' o'.'
 
 112 The SiRii of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 o 
 
 ' I dare say. No religious bodies, I suppose, 
 can claim a monopoly of honesty.' 
 
 ' Nowe. Owd Judas still tak's th' Sacrament 
 as he used to in his Maister's time.' 
 
 At this stage of the conversation Asenath 
 came in, and was not a little surprised to find 
 the new vicar of the parish standing at the side 
 of Elijah and handling the clogs. At first she 
 was somewhat distant, for the pride of Dissent 
 is as hard to tone as the pride of Episcopacy ; 
 and she was Methodist to the bone. Mr. 
 Denby, however, soon drew the woman out of 
 her sectarian reserve by thanking her for the 
 kindnesses shown to his little son, who, he 
 said, was always eager to spend his spare 
 moments at her husband's shop. 
 
 * Aw hope th' Lord '11 spare him to yo'. 
 He's brought some breetness to aar haase, aw 
 con tell yo'. Yo' see, we lost aars. He come 
 late to us — a flaar i' autumn like — i' 'Lijah's 
 autumn an' mine, aw mean. We thought v/e 
 should ha' had him to comfort us i' aar owd 
 age ; but he deed, poor lad ! afoore he blossomed. 
 An' yo're Percy favors (resembles) him, an' 
 we like see Sam'l o'er agen sin' he come.
 
 Elijah introduces the Vicar. 1 1 3 
 
 'Lijah here sez as God's sent a substitute. But, 
 after o', there's noan Hke aar own. Yo'd be 
 ill off if aught happened that little lad o' 
 yores, Mr. Denby.' 
 
 The pathos of the woman's speech went 
 straight to the vicar's heart. Depth of feeling 
 held words in abeyance, and for a little while 
 he looked through the doorway towards the 
 moors beyond ; then, controlling himself, he 
 said : 
 
 ' I'm glad Percy has been a messenger of joy. 
 But he's not my only Percy. I have one in 
 heaven — one who died the day the Percy you 
 know was born. In a few hours — nay, minutes 
 -^a life was granted and a life withdrawn.' 
 
 Then Elijah rose from his stool, and, going 
 up to the vicar, said : 
 
 ' Methody or no Methody, aw con tak to 
 yo' naa, Mr, Denby. Will yo' give me yore 
 hand.'*' And the hands of the vicar and dogger 
 clasped across the counter, and they twain were 
 one man. 
 
 ' There's summat grand abaat sorrow,' said 
 Asenath, as she watched the two men. ' It 
 beats all for makin' folk at one like. Them 
 
 15
 
 114 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 as sups it forgets their cloathes, an' brass, an' 
 religion, an o' ; an' it taks a good deal for 
 some folk to forget that — leastways, i' these 
 parts, Mr. Denby. Aw've getten a deal nearer 
 to folk sin' aar Sani'l deed nor aw ever did 
 afoore.' 
 
 * You mean the sorrow of bereavement, Mrs. 
 Holt?' 
 
 ' Yi ; aw durnd mean sorrow o'er losin' 
 brass. But there is them as frets a deal more 
 o'er their divy (lapsed dividends in factories) 
 nor they do o'er their childer. They put their 
 little uns i' th' hoile (grave) wi' no more of 
 a do nor berryin' 'tatoes.' 
 
 'Aw'll tell yo' what's plagued me a deal, 
 Mr. Denby. If yo'll tak' a walk raand th' 
 churchyard, yo'll see mony a mound o'er them 
 as has deed broken-hearted o'er a bit o' brass, 
 but noan so mony o'er them as has deed broken- 
 hearted o'er berryin' their childer. Naa, haa is 
 it, think yo'.'"' 
 
 The vicar offered no solution. 
 
 ' Shall aw tell yo' whad aw think abaat it ?' 
 
 * I should like to hear,' said the vicar. 
 
 * Well, aw reckon it up i' this feshion.
 
 Elijah introduces the Vicar. 115 
 
 Childer come a deal too quick i' these parts ; 
 an' as soon as them as has 'em get aat a bed, 
 they're off to th' factory agen to their wark. 
 Mothers, as they co' theirsel's, has no time to 
 gi' to their babbies ; it's warkin' an' sleepin', an' 
 th' little uns are put aat to the owd women — 
 grandmothers, and sich like — ony where to be 
 aat o' th' gate. Mr. Denby, aw've fun aat 'at 
 it's home 'at mays (makes) folk love their own, 
 an' th' factories has killed home for a lot o' 
 folk — yi, welly as much as th' public-haases, 
 though aw'm a teetotaller as sez it. A child as 
 groos up aatside yo' is never what aw co' a child 
 o' yore heart. Naa, aw'm happen wrang, but 
 that's as aw reckon it up.' 
 
 The vicar walked home with a dawning 
 light in his mind, having gained more know- 
 ledge of his parish and of his parishioners from 
 a morning's chat with Elijah than from all his 
 observations of the last six weeks. He began 
 to see the originality and honesty that lay 
 behind the bluntness and rudeness of those who 
 so fearlessly spoke to him, and was just master- 
 ing enough of the vernacular to relish the wit 
 that seasoned their speech. Taking all in all.
 
 ii6 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 he was not despondent as to his new cure — 
 indeed, he felt his chances the greater because 
 he saw everywhere that among his people char- 
 acter was more than sect ; and reaching the 
 vicarage, he told his wife of his parishioners 
 Elijah and Asenath Holt, and of the introduc- 
 tion they had given him to those among whom 
 he was called to minister.
 
 THEOLOGY IN A CLOGGER'S SHOP.
 
 THEOLOGY IN A CLOGGER'S SHOP. 
 
 * Thaa'rt still at it, aw see, 'Lijah. What a 
 mon thaa art for vvark, forshure !' 
 
 'What else would ta have me be, Yeb?' 
 
 ' Rest thisel' a bit. Thaa'rt gettin' owd, thaa 
 knows.' 
 
 ' Aw should get owd a deal sooner if aw did 
 naught, like some o' yo'. It's wark, thaa knov/s, 
 'at keeps folk young.' 
 
 ' Depends on what sort it is, 'Lijah.' 
 
 ' Ony sort, lad, if it's honest.' 
 
 ' Thee come to mind a mule for twenty year, 
 an' thaa'll nod talk i' that feshion. Aw've done 
 aboon my share, aw con tell thi, an' aw'm baan 
 to let others do theirs naa.' 
 
 In these days of toil to which Yeb referred, 
 his work was to follow the spinning-frames in 
 the factory known as mules ; but now, with a
 
 120 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 family of grown-up girls, all of them weavers 
 in receipt of good wages, he rested from his 
 labours, letting those work for him for whom 
 he worked in the days of their childhood. 
 He was what they called ' a chap as did naught'; 
 but this was not altogether true, for day by 
 day he indulged much in gossip and in drink. 
 Loud of voice, ready in wit, coarse in jest, and 
 rough when in his cups, he was a product of 
 manufacturing village life. In the plethora of 
 his animal spirits he was counted as good- 
 natured, but he possessed a hasty temper that 
 made him enemies not a few. He was boastful, 
 and yet a coward ; and when his chance came 
 with those weaker than himself, he could be 
 cruel. 
 
 'Aw'll tell thi whod, Yeb. Thaa'd be a 
 better mon if thaa worked a bit more,' said 
 Elijah. 
 
 ' An' thaa'd be no wur if thaa v>orked a bit 
 less, 'Lijah.' 
 
 ' Haa doesto mak' that aat, Yeb.''' 
 
 ' Why, thaa sees, it's i' this road. Them as 
 does o'er mich is never reight wi' them as does 
 less than theirsel's.'
 
 Theology in a Clogger's Shop. 121 
 
 ' But there's so mony on yo' as does so little, 
 'at if some on us didn't do a bit " o'er mich," 
 as thaa co's it, th' owd world 'ud stan' still, an' 
 there'd be a deal more clammin' (starving) nor 
 there is.' 
 
 ' Ey, 'Lijah ! there's no stanin' agen thy wit. 
 Thaa wor made for summat better nor cloggin'.' 
 
 * Aw durnd think so, Yeb. Aw've verd thee 
 say 'at a felley can do naught better nor keep 
 folk feet warm. If yo' ged wrang there yo're 
 wrang all o'er, yo' know. Aw'd rather have a 
 dry foot nor a full inside, ony day.' 
 
 ' Aw durnd knov/ as aw would, 'Lijah.* 
 
 ' Not when thaa'rt at th' Sheaf and Sickle V 
 said Elijah, with a twinkling eye. 
 
 ' Thaa's no need to laugh. Aw'm as fond o' 
 mi meat as ony o' yo'. An' aw'm noan ashamed 
 on't, noather.' 
 
 ' An' o' thi drink an' o' .?' 
 
 ' Well, aw'm noan a teetotal. An' aw'm 
 noan baan to be. Aw durnd stan' i' th' way o' 
 thi tay an' watter. An aw'm noan baan to let 
 thee Stan' i' mine o'er a soup (drink) o' ale. 
 So thaa's no need to preych thi teetotal stuff to 
 me — doesto yer?' 
 
 16
 
 122 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 ' Yi, aw yer, lad !' And Elijah bent over his 
 clog. 
 
 As Elijah hammered and sweat at his work, 
 Yeb silently drew at his pipe, and filled the low- 
 ceiled shop with wreaths of smoke, pausing now 
 and again to grunt his disgust at his friend's 
 hints as to his bibulous tendencies, which he 
 could not forgive. 
 
 In a little while the sound of a stick on the 
 pavement caught his ear, and turning towards 
 Elijah, he said : * Yon's Iron-yers (iron ears), 
 aw bet.' 
 
 * Irow-ears ' — so called because he was deaf — 
 was an asthmatic who, though he professed to 
 hear nothing, knew everything throughout the 
 whole countryside. There were people who 
 said that when he lost his ears he found his 
 wits. Others declared he played the deaf man 
 to gratify his voracious curiosity. At any rate, 
 he was both Morniug Chronicle and Evening 
 News ; and his daily place of call was the 
 dogger's shop. 
 
 Yeb was right, for in another moment old 
 Iron-ears darkened the doorway of the shop, 
 announcing his presence by a number of harsh
 
 Theology in a Clogger's Shop. 123 
 
 chest-sounds, interrupted by a succession of 
 short, catchy coughs, his breathing resembling 
 the bellows sounds of a smithy fire. 
 
 When he had pulled himself together, and 
 wiped his bald brow with a remnant of calico- 
 piece which he carried by way of handkerchief, 
 he drew out the end of a clay, and turning to 
 Yeb, said : 
 
 ' Hasto getten ony on thi ?' In response to 
 which Yeb threw him a highly polished brass 
 tobacco-box, saying : ' Help thisel'.' 
 
 Deaf as he was, Iron-ears seemed to detect 
 the sounds, for he at once pressed the spring of 
 the lid, and drew from the box a plentiful 
 supply of twist, black and wormlike. This he 
 first cut with his knife on the shop-counter, 
 then rubbed between the palms of his hands, 
 slowly filling the bowl of the attenuated pipe 
 and commencing to smoke. 
 
 ' 'Bacca's good for asthma. It *ud do thee 
 good, 'Lijah, if thaa'd tak' to't agen.' 
 
 * Is it good for deafness, doesto think } for 
 thaa tak's aboon thi share on't — leastways, 
 thaa does when thaa's Yeb's bacca-box to pool 
 at.'
 
 1 24 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 But Iron-ears smoked on stolidly. Then, 
 looking round at Elijah, he said : 
 
 ' Didto speak ?' 
 
 There was another period of silence, in which 
 Yeb and Iron-ears drew long breaths at their 
 pipes, the pungent flavour of the twist plaguing 
 the bronchial tubes of Elijah, and forcing him 
 to desist from his labours to cough. 
 
 'An' yo' yerd ought, lads?' asked Iron-ears, the 
 silence becoming unendurable to his busy mind. 
 
 Yeb and Elijah shook their heads, the one 
 looking calmly through the smoke-rings at the 
 dingy ceiling, the other hammering away at his 
 clog, both knowing full well that the way to 
 rouse the loquacity of Iron-ears was to assume 
 indifference towards him and his news. 
 
 ' Yo' yer naught up here, 'Lijah, naa-a-days. 
 But aw should ha' thought as Yeb here would 
 ha* yerd.' 
 
 Still the men, though waiting with itching 
 ears, showed no sign of curiosity. 
 
 ' Aw durnd know what we're comin' to. 
 There's summat wrang somewhere. Things 
 has altered a deal sin' aw were a lad.' 
 
 But there was no response save the tap, tap of
 
 Theology in a dogger's Shop. 125 
 
 Elijah's hammer and the occasional clearance of 
 Yeb's throat. 
 
 ' Then yo*n yerd naught abaat aar parson, 
 hav' yo' ?' 
 
 At this Elijah looked up, for Iron-ears' parson 
 was his parson as well — both were Methodists. 
 
 ' What abaat th' parson ?' blazed out Elijah 
 into the deaf man's ear. 
 
 ' Didto speak?' queried Iron-ears. 
 
 ' Yi ! Aw say, What abaat aar parson ?' 
 
 ' Aw've said naught agen th' parson. Aw 
 nobbud said han yo' yerd naught?' 
 
 ' Aw never yerd naught good about parsons 
 yet,' interrupted Yeb. ' They say a deal too 
 mich, and get a deal too mich for th' sayin' on't, 
 to my likin'.' 
 
 ' Let th' parsons a' be, Yeb, They never did 
 thee any hurt.' 
 
 * Nowe, 'Lijah — an' for a good reason an o'. 
 Aw never gav' 'em chance.' 
 
 As Iron-ears did not incline to speak further 
 about the parson, or of the reports concerning 
 him, the two men relapsed into their former 
 silence, Yeb continuing to smoke and Elijah 
 tapping away at his clog.
 
 126 The Si;^n of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 'to 
 
 *Do£Sto think, 'Lijah, as we're baan to be 
 sold o'er to th' papises (papists) ?' asked Iron- 
 ears. 
 
 ' What mak's thee ax that question ?' shouted 
 Elijah. 
 
 ' Naught mich,' wheezed the old man. 
 
 There was another spell of silence, Iron-ears 
 waiting to draw the two lisreners ; and they, 
 weary of playing their part in the waiting game, 
 chafing under the restraint they knew in a little 
 while would loose the deaf man's tongue. At 
 last their patience was rewarded, for, turning 
 towards them again, he said : 
 
 ' Yo'n yerd naught, then, abaat th' parson's 
 lad.?' 
 
 ' Nowe. Has he wed a factory lass, or 
 summat.''' asked Yeb. 
 
 * A deal wur nor that, lad,' was the old man's 
 reply. 
 
 Yeb took the pipe from his lips, and gazed 
 with gaping mouth, and Elijah laid down his 
 clog, and looked the question he dared not ask. 
 
 At this juncture Elijah's wife came on the 
 scene. She had seen Iron-ears enter the shop, 
 and groaned in spirit to know what bit of
 
 Theology in a Clogger's Shop. 127 
 
 gossip he was retailing. What she heard piqued 
 her already strained curiosity, and, going up to 
 the old man's ear, she shouted : 'What is't.-^' 
 
 • Thaa may weel ax " What is't ?" lass. Aar 
 parson's lad geet confirmed at St. Luke's yester 
 afternun !' 
 
 ' What ! A Methody parson's lad confirmed 
 at church — an' aar parson an' o' ! He's never 
 have a farthin' o' mi brass agen. Aw'm noan 
 baan to pay to mak' papises.' 
 
 'What mun he geet confirmed for?' asked 
 Elijah. 
 
 ' Isn't his faither as good as th' bishop ony 
 day?' indignantly protested Elijah's wife. 'It's 
 come to summat when aar own's ashamed on 
 
 us!' 
 
 ' That's what aw say,' wheezed Iron-ears, into 
 whose deaf organs this conversation was shouted 
 — 'that's what aw say. What's sauce for th' 
 goose is sauce for th' gander.' 
 
 ' Yi, but it's th' goslin' this time, thaa knows, 
 interrupted Yeb. 
 
 ' Yi, an' what's sauce for th' gander is sauce 
 for the goslin' an* o',' said Iron-ears, 'if yo'll 
 nobbud let me speak.'
 
 128 The Sio:n of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 'to 
 
 ' Bless thee, lass,' continued Yeb, determined, 
 now his knife was in a tender spot, to twist it 
 round — ' bless thee, lass, the parson's nobbud 
 lookin' up i' th' world. Clogs maks for boots, 
 thaa knows, and Methodies mak' for th' Church.' 
 
 Yeb's reference to clogs was unfortunate. It 
 roused the pride of Elijah's wife, who looked 
 on her husband's trade as one of high-class 
 respectability, and, turning to him, she said : 
 
 * Aw'd have thee know, Yeb, as my maister's 
 trade's as good as thine, ony day — and, for that, 
 a vast sight better. Thaa'd look a deal better 
 if thaa'd work a bit more nor thaa does, i'stead 
 o' lettin' them lasses o' thine work to keep thee 
 i' idleness.' 
 
 ' Naa, come, 'Senath, durnd tak' on like that. 
 Aw wor sayin' naught agen clogs. Aw wor 
 nobbud sayin' that i' this world as folk get up 
 a bit, they gi' o'er wearing clogs an' tak' to 
 shoon. An' aw've lived long enough to find 
 aat that clogs go to th' chapel and shoon to th' 
 church. Dun yo' see.'' 
 
 • Yi, aw see. Happen thaa'rt reight an' o'.' 
 
 ' Can ony o' yo' tell a chap what confirmation 
 is.^' asked Iron-cars.
 
 Theology in a Clogger's Shop. 129 
 
 ' It's summat same as what we call convarsion,' 
 replied Elijah. 
 
 ' There's mony roads o' gettin' to heaven,' 
 sarcastically interrupted Yeb. 
 
 ' Thee mind thaa doesn't miss 'em all, lad.' 
 
 ' Aw durnd know as aw shall ax thee to show 
 me ony of 'em, 'Senath, an' aw'm sure aw shall 
 ax noan o' th' parsons.' 
 
 ' Con ony o' yo' tell me what coniirmation 
 is.''' again shouted Iron-ears, who heard not this 
 theological wrangling, and deemed himself in- 
 sulted at what he took to be the indifference of 
 the company to his question. 
 
 ' Con — var — si — on !' bawled Yeb at the top 
 of his voice, and in the tympanum of the deaf 
 man's ear — ' con — var — si — on i' 
 
 ' Aw thought as mich. But th' lad wor 
 convarted. He geet *' brought in " (converted) 
 at th' revival last winter but one.' 
 
 ' Happen he wor like some more as aw know.' 
 
 • What's that?' asked Elijah's wife. 
 
 * Happen he wanted convartin' o'er agen.' 
 
 ' Howd thi nasty tongue !' said the woman. 
 * Thaa ought to shame o' makin' flm o' sichlike 
 things.' 
 
 17
 
 130 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 'Why, 'Senath, thaa knows aw'm reight. 
 There's owd Neddy Brimrod been convarted 
 more nor forty times. He sez he has hissel' ; 
 and he tell'd me t'other neet i' th' Sheaf and 
 Sickle 'at if he lives long enough he means to 
 be convarted as mony times agen. He sez he 
 tak's to it, like.' 
 
 Thaa*rt goin' a bit o'er far, Yeb. Aw con 
 do wi' a crack (a joke), but not o'er sacred 
 things, thaa knows. Aw believe i' a chap 
 follerin' his lights. An' if th' parson's lad can 
 do more good wi' gettin' confirmed, then aw 
 should be th' last to raise mi hond agen him ; 
 but his faither 'II hav' no more brass o' mine.' 
 
 It was now the vicar's son came bounding 
 into the shop — ' God's substitute,' as Elijah 
 called him — and, turning to him, that good 
 man said : 
 
 ' Bless thee, thaa'rt just th' lad we want. 
 Wor aar parson's son confirmed at thi faither's 
 church yesterday .'*' 
 
 ' Yes,' said the boy ; * I was there and saw 
 him.' 
 
 ' Worn'd his own good enugh for him, little 
 un.''' asked Yeb — ' not respectable like.'"
 
 Theology in a dogger's Shop. 1 3 1 
 
 * He wants to be a missionary, father says, in 
 our Church Missionary Society, but he couldn't 
 be without being confirmed.' 
 
 * Brass agen !' cried the irrepressible Yeb. 
 ' Parsons is o' alike — it's awlus what's at th' end 
 on't.' 
 
 The boy flushed, and, turning on Yeb, he 
 cried : 
 
 ' You bad man ! I'll tell my father what you 
 say!' 
 
 * And what will your father do, little turkey- 
 cock, ey? Happen he'll want to mak' a mis- 
 sionary o' me and o'.' 
 
 ' If thaa speaks to th' lad agen i' that feshion, 
 aw'll put thee out o' th' shop — so naa thaa 
 knows, Yeb,' said Elijah, rising from his stool, 
 and colouring up to the roots of his hair. 
 'Remember Him as said, "Take heed that ye 
 despise not one o' these little uns." ' 
 
 ' So thaa's taken to quotin' Scripter naa, hasto, 
 'Lijah? Well, aw cornd stan' that.' 
 
 ' Nowe ; there wor another as couldn't beside 
 thee,' said the sharp-tongued Asenath, who now 
 took the part of the boy, in whose eyes the 
 tears were gathering. ' Come here, my darlin' ;'
 
 132 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 and, drav/ing him to her side, she stroked his 
 hair and kissed him. 
 
 ' So he's getten convarted o'er agen, has he ?' 
 said Iron-ears, partly to himself, and on whom 
 a confused conception of confirmation had 
 broken — ' getten converted o'er agen, has he ? 
 Well, he'll happen be th' better for't — let's hope 
 so, at ony rate.' 
 
 * And he's going to be a missionary in Africa,' 
 said the boy, stealing up to the ear of the old 
 man, and speaking in shrill, childish tones. 
 
 ' What doesto say, little un ^ Thaa mun 
 speak up — aw'm deaf 
 
 ' He's going to be a missionary in Africa — 
 where black people live, you know,' 
 
 'Will he open ony fresh markets for th' 
 factories, thinksto, little unr' 
 
 ' I'll ask father — he'll know.' 
 
 * Durnd thee trouble thi faither about ony 
 sich nonsense, Percy. Iron-ears has some shares 
 i' th' factory, thaa knows, and he thinks a deal 
 too mich o' th' markets, that's o', so good neet, 
 little un ;' and Asenath, once more kissing the 
 boy, bade him go home. Then, turning to 
 Yeb, she said : ' Yeb, never thee sneer afore
 
 Theology in a dogger's Shop. 133 
 
 childer. It's bad enugh to mak' gam' (game) o' 
 religion afore grov/n-up folk, but him as does it 
 afore a child o'erfaces th' devil hissel'. If thaa 
 wants to spit thaa's no need to do it on a clean 
 floor ; thaa con go aatside to do it. Thaa'd 
 better draan thisel' i' th' mill lodge nor go on 
 as thaa's done afore yon child — leastways, th' 
 Maister said so.' 
 
 ' Thaa'rt a gradely talker, 'Senath. Th' 
 vicar had better mak' a missionary o' thee 
 an o . 
 
 ' If th' missionaries hav' to praich to a wur lot 
 nor yo', then av/ pity 'em.' 
 
 'What are yo' talkin' abaat ?' asked Iron- 
 ears. 
 
 ' Aw'm nobbud tellin' Yeb here 'at if th' 
 heathen are wur nor he is, them as preyches to 
 'em '11 want confirming or summat.' 
 
 * Aw'm same road o' thinkin' as yo', 'Senath,' 
 said Iron-ears. * Yeb's both " stiff-necked and 
 uncircumcised," as th' Scripter sez.' 
 
 * Yo' Methodies is a bonny lot for banging 
 th' Bible abaat folk yeds. If aw v/ere yo', aw'd 
 preych less an' practise more.' 
 
 ' Eyt Vv'i' th' same spoon thaa'rt feedin' us wi',
 
 134 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 Yeh,' said Elijah. ' Thaa'rt abaat as ill a prac- 
 tiser as aw know ; but thaa does a deal o' talk- 
 in'.' 
 
 ' Tha sees, 'Lijah, aw'm noan a perfesser.* 
 
 * That means thaa con do as thaa likes, an' 
 no one mun speak to thee. It's a yessy thing 
 to be baat a religion, Yeb, There's no strait 
 gates an' narro' roads th' way thaa travels.' 
 
 'What doesto say, lass?' cried Iron-ears, who 
 was straining to catch the conversation between 
 Yeb and Asenath. ' What doesto say ^' 
 
 * Why, Yeb here sez 'at he perfesses naught, 
 an' aw wor nobbud tellin' him he'd a yessy time 
 on't. It's a chep (cheap) religion is his.' 
 
 ' Yigh,' groaned the deaf man. * Them as 
 hes naught con loise naught.' 
 
 ' An' what abaat them as mak's aat they hev 
 summat, an' hasn't — ey ? Smoke that i' your 
 pipe, owd lad ;' and so saying, Yeb gave Iron- 
 ears a significant nod. 
 
 ' What's he sayin' abaat mi pipe, Asenath .?' 
 
 ' He sez naught abaat thi pipe, like ; it's 
 thee, an' me, an' 'Lijah here, he's talkin' 
 abaat.' 
 
 ' An' what does he say ? Sezto V 
 
 1
 
 Theology in a dogger's Shop. 135 
 
 * As we mak' aat as we've summat when we've 
 getten naught.* 
 
 'What hasto getten, Yeb?' asked the old 
 man. 
 
 ' Naught, as aw know on.' 
 
 * Well, thaa con speyk for thisel' ; but durnd 
 thee put thi hond into mi pocket, that's all.' 
 
 ' Nor into mine, noather,' said Elijah ; ' an' 
 if we've nobbud getten th' one talent, we're 
 none baan to berry it i' a hoile as thaa'rt doing.' 
 
 ' Scripter agen !' cried Yeb ; ' what folk yo' 
 Methodies are for Scripter !' And filling his pipe, 
 he walked musingly to the Sheaf and Sickle to 
 repeat the story of the parson's son and his con- 
 firmation.
 
 ENOS THE EXORCIST. 
 
 I. A Strange Tenant. 
 II. A Forsaken Soul. 
 
 t8
 
 I. 
 
 A STRANGE TENANT. 
 
 * Whose ta'n th' Lone Haase ?' asked Iron- 
 ears at one of the morning councils at the 
 dogger's shop. 
 
 ' Aw didn't know as it were ta'n,' replied 
 Yeb, drawing savagely at his dying pipe. 
 
 ' Yi, but it is ; an' he's a queer un that's 
 ta'n it. A long-legged felley, wi' his yure (hair) 
 daan his shou'ders, and a sken (squint) like a 
 foomert (polecat).' 
 
 ' Well, thaa draws a bonny picter on him, an' 
 no mistak',' said Elijah. 
 
 ' Where didto see him ?' shouted Yeb into 
 the deaf man's ears. 
 
 * Where did aw see him ? Why, I see'd him 
 diggin' i' th' garden up at the Lone Haase, for- 
 shure. Where didto think aw'd see him.'"
 
 140 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 'A tramp weyver, happen,' suggested old 
 Tic-tak, the itinerant clock-mender ; to which 
 suggestion Iron-ears shook his head, saying : 
 ' He doesn'd stoop enugh for a weyver.' 
 ' A furriner (suspected stranger) aw'll war'nd.' 
 
 * Yi ; some rubbidge o' that mak' (sort).' 
 
 * When did th' chap come, thinksto?' asked 
 Yeb of the deaf man. 
 
 ' Neet afore last. He brought th' key o'er 
 wi' him fro' Dene. Th' squire's agent lives 
 theere, thaa knows.' 
 
 ' Well, aw wish him luck i' that hoile. It's 
 bin an ill day for them as ever lived theer i' 
 my time. They say there's blood on th' 
 walls, an' aw'm noan so sure but they're 
 reight.' 
 
 The Lone House, as it was called, stood on a 
 projection of scarped clifF at the bend of the 
 moors, and looked down, like a weird watcher, 
 on the valley below. It was fringed by a 
 disused road, and fenced in from the open by 
 a little waste of garden, in which tangled briars 
 and long weeds lay writhing and knotted in 
 forlorn confusion. At the back stood a clump 
 of trees, long since sapless, through the leafless
 
 A Strange Tenant. 141 
 
 branches of which in sunniest days the wind 
 wailed as if in terror of its nearness to this 
 deserted shadow of the past. It was a spot 
 forsaken. None came near it from choice. 
 Swallows had long since ceased to build under 
 its eaves, and straying sheep were never known 
 to wander near its enclosure. Tenants there 
 had been, but they were few and far between — 
 uncanny and silent, coming from no one knew 
 where, and thither returning. Around it had 
 settled an air of mystery — nay, an atmosphere 
 of dread superstition — so much so that the 
 house was as seldom talked of as it was seldom 
 visited. No wonder, then, the gossipers at the 
 Sign of the Wooden Shoon were somewhat 
 awed at the announcement made by Iron-ears. 
 
 And who was the strange tenant ^ and how 
 came he to seek this forsaken spot ? 
 
 Three days prior to Iron-ears' story, told in 
 the dogger's shop, a tall, gaunt man, erect and 
 swift of foot, had skirted the moors at evening, 
 as the wind began to moan on the long ridges 
 of heather and rush, and stir with chill breath 
 the dark waters m the peaty pools. He threw 
 a furtive glance to right and left, and would
 
 142 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 look from time to time over his shoulder as 
 though in dread of one who follov/ed. As he 
 walked on alone the setting sun threw a giant 
 shadow from his form — a shadow that swept for 
 many a yard the waste, and startled the wild 
 fowl, and set off at a scamper the wondering 
 flocks. In one hand he carried an old-fashioned 
 carpet-bag, the coloured pattern of v/hich was 
 faded with exposure to many storms, while in 
 his other hand he clenched a strong thorn, 
 which from time to time he dug with savage 
 blows into the yielding ground. His hair, as 
 Iron-ears had told the gossips at the dogger's, 
 was long, and to the wildness of his eye was 
 lent the horrible squint. 
 
 Coming to a ridge on the moors from which 
 the village was visible, he paused to watch it 
 disappear in the folding mists of evening. The 
 gray smoke from a hundred chimneys was 
 curling lazily, and lights began to glimmer 
 from the homestead windows, telling of comfort 
 strangely in contrast w4th the lonesomeness of 
 the moors. Half a mile below stood the un- 
 gainly gables of the little chapel where Elijah 
 worshipped, and from it came the sounds of a
 
 A Strange Tenant. 143 
 
 hymn sung by lusty men — a hymn, too, famihar 
 to the wanderer's ears. 
 
 Stealthily he descended the slope, welcoming 
 the gathering night, at each step the sounds 
 of the hymn growing clearer. Then followed 
 a prayer, loud and importunate — a prayer of 
 uncultured sincerity — a prayer of the hills. 
 To the wanderer's heart it came in tones as 
 magical as those of harmony to the heart of 
 a musician. A light broke from his eyes, 
 the haunted look left his face, and he crept 
 towards the chapel, hiding under an adjacent 
 tomb that he might the better hear, and hear 
 unobserved. 
 
 It was the service of illiterate men ; this the 
 educated sense of the stranger at once detected ; 
 but his religious instinct told him it was the 
 service of men of power. He took in every 
 word, his heart beating faster to the ejaculations 
 of the worshippers, and warming to the oft-sung 
 verses that punctuated the prayers. Long after 
 the service was over he remained among the 
 tombs, at times talking wildly, and beating the 
 air with his thorn stick, then falling down, and 
 crying incoherently on God. As night fell he
 
 144 '^^"'^ ^^S" of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 climbed the heights to the Lone House, which 
 he entered, shutting-to the door on his desola- 
 tion. Such was the strange tenant whose pre- 
 sence old Iron-ears had discovered. 
 
 ' Aw would like to know who he is, and 
 what he wants,' said Iron-ears, continuing his 
 conversation. ' There's summat abaat him as 
 seems noan reight,' 
 
 ' Up to some mak' o' mischief, aw bet. 
 Them furriners is a bad lot. It were an ill day 
 when they started a-comin' i' these parts,' said 
 Yeb. 
 
 ' There's happen summat good abaat th' chap, 
 after all, lads,' mildly rebuked Elijah. ' Yo' 
 know, we're to think no evil, and we're noan 
 to judge — ey, Yeb.'* Th' old Book sez so, 
 doesn'd it?' 
 
 ' Th' owd Book, as yo' co' it, is naught i' mi 
 line, 'Lijah. Aw'm no Methody.' 
 
 ' Then "juhat are you ?' 
 
 The voice was unexpected and sepulchral, 
 and the men in the shop started as if spoken 
 to by one from the dead. Yeb's pipe fell out 
 of his mouth on the floor and broke, scattering
 
 A Strange Tenant. 145 
 
 the ashes and lighted plug of tobacco from the 
 bowl. Elijah dropped the clog on which he 
 was at work. Even Iron-ears heard, and turned 
 a shade of colour on his own bronzed face ; 
 while Tic-tak made for the door in v/hich the 
 stranger stood whose voice and question had so 
 startled the group. 
 
 It did not take long, however, before these 
 hardy sons of the hills recovered their self- 
 possession, and in a bullying tone Yeb answered 
 the stranger's question by saying : 
 
 'Aw durnd know as it matters to yo' what 
 aw am.' 
 
 ' Brother, it matters much.' 
 
 'Durnd jaw me wi' your Methody lingo 
 'Lijah here's a brother, or whatever yo' co' 'em 
 i' yore religion. But aw'm noan one o' that 
 sort, and aw durnd mean to be. So yo' can 
 put that i' your pipe and smoke it.' 
 
 •I don't use tobacco, my brother.' And 
 then, putting his foot on the fallen pipe and 
 expiring weed that were lying on the floor, he 
 said : ' Thy idol is trodden under foot.' 
 
 ' An' aw'U do as mich for thee wi' mi foot !' 
 cried the infuriated Yeb ; and had not Elijah 
 
 19
 
 146 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 interfered, the stranger would have been kicked 
 into the street. 
 
 * Hear ye not the voice : *' Touch not Mine 
 anointed, and do My prophets no harm " ?' 
 
 'Aw yer thaa't wrong i' thi yed? What 
 'sylum hasta come fro'?' 
 
 The stranger looked at Yeb with a burning 
 fire in his eye. Not the fire of anger — that 
 the old sceptic could have withstood ; but it 
 was an unearthly, searching fire, and Yeb let 
 his glance fall on the ground. 
 
 Turning to Elijah, he said : 
 
 ' Thou art of the Lord's people — I read it 
 in thy face. Thy voice, too, I heard at the 
 hour of prayer. Thou art a chosen vessel.' 
 
 Then, turning to Iron-ears, he said ; 
 
 * And what art thou, brother .''' 
 ' He's deeaf,' answered Yeb. 
 
 ' Ah ! " The ears of the deaf shall be un- 
 stopped." ' 
 
 ' If thaa con mak' him yer, thaa'rt a clever 
 un, an' no mistak'.' 
 
 * All things are possible to God, brother.' 
 
 * Howd thi din ! Aw'm noan thi brother, 
 aw tell thee !' And Yeb pushed past the
 
 A Strange Tenant. 147 
 
 stranger with an oath, to hurry with his news 
 to the Sheaf and Sickle. 
 
 ' " Swear not at all," ' was the solemn rebuke 
 of the stranger. 
 
 Elijah had been looking at the face. It was 
 a noble face, shadowed by a haunted look that 
 would have kindled pity in the hardest heart. 
 The brow was high, the nose aquiline, the 
 mouth refined and closely-drawn — but the eyes ! 
 Elijah could not look into them. There was 
 the horrible squint and the unearthly fire, while 
 over all there was the cast of dread ; and even 
 as he stood erect before the men a constant 
 glance was thrown over his shoulder — a glance 
 of nervous, anticipatory fear. 
 
 ' Yo're a stranger i' these parts.''' interrogated 
 Elijah. 
 
 ' " Be not forgetful to entertain strangers, 
 for thereby some have entertained angels un- 
 awares," ' was the reply. 
 
 Elijah thought of angels of darkness, and a 
 chill came over him. 
 
 ' Speak thy thought, brother. Thinkest thou 
 that 1 am a messenger of Satan?' And the 
 speaker threw another furtive glance across his
 
 148 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 shoulder ; then, starting as if in terror, he fell 
 writhing on the floor. 
 
 At one bound Elijah leapt the counter, and 
 found himself several yards from his shop-door, 
 while Iron-ears, pale as death, fled into the 
 farthest corner, being barred egress by the fallen 
 form. 
 
 For upwards of a minute the stranger seemed 
 to wrestle with an unseen foe. Rolling over, he 
 beat the stone floor with his knuckles till they 
 were bruised and bleeding, and fastened his 
 teeth into a strip of leather that was near him, 
 chewing it like pulp. Strange words fell from 
 his lips — words that fought for utterance with 
 choking foam — while beads of perspiration 
 rolled off his brow. Rallying from the paroxysm, 
 he wiped the moisture from his face, a light of 
 gladness banishing the haunted look. Then, 
 walking towards Elijah, he put out his hand, 
 and said : 
 
 ' Fear not. " He that overcometh, the same 
 shall be clothed in white raiment, and I will 
 not blot out his name out of the Book of Life" ' 
 the last words being uttered in tones of ring- 
 ing triumph ; and, with a farewell wave of his
 
 A Strange Tenant. 149 
 
 lengthy arm, he strode off in the direction of 
 the Lone House. 
 
 It was not long before the whole village was 
 agog. Yeb had roused the idlers at the Sheaf 
 and Sickle, and Elijah's leap into the street 
 brought a dozen pairs of wondering eyes to as 
 many doors and windows. 
 
 'What's up, 'Lijah.^ is th' shop o' fire?' cried 
 a loud-voiced woman with a glance for the 
 curious. 
 
 ' Thaa'd better come an' see, lass. Onyroad, 
 owd Iron-yers is inside somewhere, an' aw'm ill 
 off abaat him.' 
 
 A crowd soon gathered round the door, and 
 with great trepidity Elijah looked in, but Iron- 
 ears was not to be seen. 
 
 ' He's ta'n him, aw bet,' groaned Elijah. 
 
 ' Who's ta'n him ^ What doesto mean ?' 
 cried the woman who first addressed Elijah. 
 
 Then the dogger rallied himself and went 
 into the shop, but nowhere could he see his 
 friend. 
 
 * Sithee,' cried the woman at his side. 
 ' Sithee, there's a pair o' clogs yonder wi' 
 stockin's and trousers to 'em ' ; and, looking in
 
 1 50 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 the direction in which she pointed, Elijah saw 
 Iron-ears' legs protruding from a side of leather. 
 Lifting it, there lay the old man, with scarcely 
 breath left to wheeze out : 
 
 ' Has he goan ?' 
 
 ' Yi,' said Elijah, as frightened as his hiding 
 friend. 
 
 ' Then aw'm off" an* o' !' And Iron-ears 
 walked home with the nimble step of a boy, 
 declaring that ' th' devil hissel' wor th' tenant 
 o' th' Lone Haase.' 
 
 That night sundry councils were held as to 
 what should be done with the tenant of the 
 Lone House. The police were seen, but 
 refused to interfere, satisfied that the stranger 
 was respectable and had merely suffered from a 
 fit. A deputation waited on ' Owd Harry,' as 
 he was called — the magistrate — but he laughed 
 at the story. The vicar was appealed to, and 
 satisfied himself by referring the case to one of 
 religious mania. 
 
 At the Sheaf and Sickle there was great 
 clamour and much ale consumed. Yeb was 
 the hero, and greatly exaggerated the story. 
 He dwelt much on the stranger's squint, and
 
 A Strange Tenant. 151 
 
 swore that his breath was strong with the fumes 
 of brimstone. Indeed, he went so far as to call 
 the stranger ' Owd Brimston',' and expressed his 
 indignation that he should be addressed by him 
 as ' my brother,' declaring that he v/as ' not o' 
 that breed yet.' 
 
 Now, there dwelt in Heatherlow a patriarchal 
 man of the name of Enos — Enos Moorfield. 
 He was the oldest Methodist in the village — a 
 good man, one against whom no word was ever 
 spoken, and one in whom both good and bad 
 alike believed. In almost all cases of illness he 
 was sent for, and when infection spread, and 
 visitors were scared away from the bedside of 
 the sick, he was always there, whispering his 
 words of love. There was a regal benignity 
 about the old man. His face, plebeian in cast, 
 was redeemed by that seraphic light that used to 
 catch the eye of the medieval painter ; and his 
 voice, while in no way oily or unctuous, touched 
 tender chords in all hearts. He was uncultured, 
 never having written his name throughout his 
 four-score years. And he knew barely enough 
 of letters to match the children in the lowest 
 class. But he possessed an insight into the
 
 152 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 human heart, and, to use his own Methodist 
 phraseology, ' He knew whom he had believed.' 
 In all vexing questions he was the final court of 
 appeal in Hcatherlow, and, as he used to say, 
 * He settled th' job wi' prayer.' It was to old 
 Enos that Elijah and his friends at last turned, 
 and into his ears told their startling story. 
 
 * Aw think aw know what it is, lads,' said he, 
 after listening to the tale. ' It's a case o' pos- 
 session. Aw con remember 'em when aw wor 
 a lad — when th' revivals wor agate. We've 
 noan had so mony lat'ly i' these parts, thank 
 God ! But that's noan to say as we shaln'd hav' 
 'em agen. This kind, yo' know, goeth not 
 forth but by prayer and fastin'. Yo' made a 
 mistak' i' going to th' perlece ; it's noan a job 
 for th' court haase, it's for th' Almeety to 
 sattle, and not th' magistrate. Av/'ll hav' a 
 word or two wi' Him mysel' and yer what He 
 sez. Yo' con stop here whol aw come daan 
 agen.' And Enos left them, to enter into his 
 chamber for prayer. 
 
 The men who waited on Enos were now left 
 alone, and as the minutes passed their expec- 
 tancy grew more strained. Each knew the old
 
 A Strange Tenant. 153 
 
 man would return to them with a solution, for 
 he was never appealed to without proving his 
 manv resources. Yet, how he would deal with 
 the mad tenant of the Lone House they could 
 not tell. His remarks also about * possession ' 
 greatly vexed them. 
 
 Time passed slowly. The minutes gave out 
 the quarter, and the quarter lent itself to the 
 half-hour herald from the clock, yet Enos re- 
 mained in his chamber in prayer. 
 
 ' Th' owd lad's wrostlin' (wrestling), yer thee,''' 
 said Elijah, as sounds came from the chamber 
 above — sounds as of someone rolling over the 
 floor and uttering deep groans. 
 
 ' Yi ! Happen he's straitened in hissel'. He's 
 noan liberty,' replied another of the sect. 
 
 ' Let's help him a bit wi' a hymn. Naa, Jerry, 
 strike up "Sov-ren-i-ty " to ''Moses and 'Lijah." ' 
 
 Whereupon the man spoken to as Jerry threw 
 himself back in his chair, and closing his eyes, 
 struck up the old tune to a hymn in which 
 there was reference to the two prophets, the 
 refrain being . 
 
 'Let Moses in the spirit groan, 
 And God cries out, " Let Me alone." * 
 
 20
 
 154 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 These two lines were sung again and again 
 with growing vehemence, until the excitement 
 became wild, the singers rocking themselves to 
 the time of the tune, and beating with their 
 hands to the rhythm of the v»'ords. 
 
 ' Give it band, lads !' cried out the man who 
 suggested the hymn as a source of help to Enos, 
 'give it band (let it go)!' And the refrain 
 waxed fast and furious. 
 
 When the singing was at its height a great 
 shout was heard overhead, and a heavy thud 
 sounded on the floor as of a man leaping. 
 
 ' He's getten it !' cried Jerry (got an answer 
 to his prayer). Then the men ceased singing, 
 and clamoured, ' Hallelujah ! Hallelujah !' 
 
 Just then the shining face of Enos was seen 
 at the staircase doorway, his cheery voice ex- 
 claiming : ' Yo're reight, lads : awVe getten it. 
 There's naught like prayer for movin' th' Al- 
 meety.' 
 
 * What do yo' mak' on it, Enos .''' asked 
 Elijah. 
 
 ' It's as aw tov/d yo' — a case o' possession. 
 Th' poor chap's delivered o'er to th' bonds o' 
 Satan. He's i' th' claws o' the roarin' lion —
 
 A Strange Tenant. 155 
 
 bun captive by the devil. Let's go and pray 
 for him.' 
 
 ' Where mun we pray .^' asked the men. 
 
 ' Up at th' Lone Haase,' was the reply of 
 Enos. ' There's naught like feytin' th' devil 
 on his own graand.' 
 
 ' Aw'm noan baan to th' Lone Haase/ said 
 Jerry. 
 
 * Nor me noather,' cried another stalwart 
 champion of the faith. 
 
 ' We mut as weel pray here, Enos,' suggested 
 Elijah. 
 
 * Yo' con stop and pray where yoVe a mind. 
 Aw'm baan to beard th' owd lion i' his own 
 den. Aw'm none feard o' th' devil ony- 
 where, or i' ony shap (shape). So here goes.' 
 And putting on his coat and hat, he went out 
 into the night to find his way to the Lone 
 House alone.
 
 II. 
 
 A FORSAKEN SOUL. 
 
 It was a sultry autumn night. Clouds covered 
 the moon, and a dead atmosphere hung over the 
 valley. 
 
 ' There's baan to be a storm, Enos. Aw 
 think if aw wor thee aw'd stop a' whom. Th' 
 Lord 'ill yer thi prayers as weel daan here as up 
 yon.' 
 
 ' Aw'm baan to th' Lone Haase, 'Lijah, so it 
 neither means nor matters ;' and the old man 
 struck the drift path towards the moors. 
 
 Slowly he mounted the heights, breathing 
 hard, and uttering ejaculatory prayers mixed 
 with passages of Scripture that bore on devils 
 and their power over the souls of men. His 
 step was without trepidation, nor did his pulse 
 beat the faster as he passed into the darkness.
 
 A Forsaken Soul. 157 
 
 There was a burdensome heat in the air, as from 
 a distant furnace, that fevered his cheeks and 
 choked his breathing : a superstitious man 
 would have thought of the gates of hell. The 
 horizon was tremulous with electric cloud ; 
 luminous pale-blue vapours, phantom - like, 
 played behind the far-off hills ; but there was 
 no rain, and the stillness was unbroken. Not a 
 leaf rustled its fellow leaf — not a blade of grass 
 bent to touch the clustering blades that lay along 
 the path the old man trod. It was as though 
 Nature were frightened into a deep hush — a 
 hush ominous of some unknown, yet impending 
 doom. 
 
 Of all this Enos was forgetful. His mission 
 took such hold of him that he saw only the 
 forsaken soul of the tenant of the Lone House. 
 Reaching the first bend of the path, he turned 
 to traverse a length of disused road, still uneven 
 with ruts long since cut by carts conveying 
 stone from an old quarry. Several times he 
 stumbled, but, repeating in suppressed voice the 
 words of the Psalmist, ' He shall give His 
 angels charge over thee, lest at any time thou 
 dash thy foot against a stone,' he pursued his
 
 158 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 way. Then he came to a shed — once the smithy 
 of the quarry, now lone and ruined — a spot he 
 knew well, and in which he had often drawn 
 aside to pray ; a secret place where he had met 
 God. Here he paused, in part for breath, in 
 part for prayer. 
 
 For several minutes Enos remained kneeling 
 on its damp floor, wrestling with the Almighty 
 for the captive soul for which he was in search. 
 It was a rude, illiterate prayer — no beauty in its 
 phrase, little coherence in its petition : 
 
 ' Oh Thaa who con mak' th' devils believe 
 an' thremble, mak' him as howd's yon felley 
 yonder leave howd o' his precious soul ! Turn 
 him aat. Lord, turn him aat ; and when Thaa's 
 getten him aat, keep him aat. Put thi clog on 
 him, Lord, an' bruise his yed! Thaa knows 
 th' poor chap is i' th' bonds o' iniquity and th' 
 gall o' bitterness. Deliver him, Lord, wi' that 
 mighty hand o' Thine. Smite daan th' Phil's- 
 tine o' sin ! Break his bow and cut his spear 
 asunder !' 
 
 As Enos finished, a low rumble of distant 
 thunder came in at the door of the hut, as if in 
 defiance of his cry.
 
 A Forsaken Soul. 159 
 
 *Thaa may grow], owd lad/ said the daunt- 
 less saint, ' but th' iVlmeety rules.* 
 
 The next stage of the journey lay along the 
 shoulder of a bold hill, below which was a gorge 
 called ' Th' Boggart Clough.' Gruesome and 
 chill in sunniest days, on this, the night of 
 Enos' mission, the yawning deep was as the 
 Hades of the vision of old ; but he skirted it 
 with unfaltering step. By this time the rain 
 was falling in big drops, spattering loudly on 
 the herbage, and sudden gusts of wind disturbed 
 the trees, and tossed the falling leaves in showers 
 of wild confusion. Encs was now in the wilder- 
 ness of the hills, and as the lurid light fell in 
 frequency he saw the giant mounds rising in 
 distance, their hollows low in gloom. From 
 far-off farms feeble flames flickered, the dim 
 illuminations of lone homes. To the fore lay 
 the great shoulder of Cragcroft, the mighty 
 monarch of that wild sweep, while half-way 
 up its heights, and on the bend, stood the 
 Lone House. 
 
 Enos reached its enclosure of garden before 
 the full burst of the storm. Standing by the 
 gate, which v/as unhinged and lying in the
 
 i6o The Sifrn of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 'to 
 
 path, he paused for breath, for the journey had 
 been long. Then, offering another prayer, he 
 went towards the door and knocked. 
 
 There was no answer ; but from the Hght that 
 gleamed beneath the threshold Enos judged 
 the stranger was within. Then he lifted the 
 sneck, to find the door was barred ; and despite 
 his lunges, it remained secure. Walking round 
 the tangled garden to the entrance at the rear, 
 the old man found the kitchen dimly illumined, 
 and looking through the uncurtained window, 
 beheld the man on whose salvation he was bent. 
 
 That which Enos saw and heard led him, for 
 the first time, and for a moment only, to wish 
 himself anywhere but on those heights on his 
 errand of mercy. There stood the stranger, 
 his hair falling over his shoulders, his hands 
 clasped as if in prayer, with agonized entreaty 
 pleading in every feature of his withered face. 
 But when the old man heard the prayer that he 
 put up — put up with such clearness of accent 
 and finish of expression — he saw the ' Divine 
 Providence,' as he called it, in his journey, and 
 thanked the God who had brought him. 
 
 ' O God Almighty !' cried the stranger,
 
 A Forsaken Soul. 16 1 
 
 * v/ilt Thou not show mercy to Thy servant 
 and the son of Thy handmaid? Hast Thou 
 forgotten to be gracious ? Why hast Thou cut 
 me off in Thy sore displeasure ?' Then, stoop- 
 ing and straining his ear as though some voice 
 spake to him from the ground, he started, and 
 in tones of terror cried : 
 
 ' What ! reserved in everlasting chains, under 
 darkness, unto the judgment of the great day?' 
 After this he raised his head, and, looking up, 
 pleaded, ' But I've always loved Thee, Lord, 
 and served Thee.' Then, bending his ear to 
 the floor as though again listening, he said : 
 ' What ! not to him that v/illeth, nor to him 
 that runneth, but of God that showeth mercy ?' 
 
 Enos stooped low, keeping well under shadow 
 of the wild grov/th of shrub that hung round 
 the broken window of the kitchen, in part for 
 secrecy, and in part for shelter from the now 
 drenching showers of rain. Follov/ing the 
 movements of the stranger, he noted a sv/ift 
 v/heeling round of the heels and the sudden 
 seizure of the thorn staff which v/as reared at 
 his side. Then, in defiant tones, and with much 
 beating the air, the voice continued : 
 
 21
 
 1 62 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 ' Get thee behind me ! get thee gone, seducer 
 of the brethren, har from the beginning, adver- 
 sary of souls !' 
 
 At this point a flash of forked fire tore its 
 way through the void and lit up the shadowy 
 prison with a momentary flame. 
 
 ' There ! now thou see'st,' continued the 
 defiant voice. ' " I beheld Satan fall as lightning 
 from heaven." So said thy Master. So fall ! 
 What ! sayest thou I shall fall with thee.?' And 
 he again listened as to a voice from below. 
 * Fall with thee V And the man fell, rolling 
 over on the floor as he had done that morning 
 in the dogger's shop. 
 
 The storm was now at its height. In reck- 
 less course the flame tore its way across the 
 gloom of cloud. The thunder no longer 
 boomed, but cracked and rattled without dis- 
 tant note of warning, detonation following 
 detonation, as though mad in the hurry of 
 discharge, and eager to overtake in wild succes- 
 sion the receding claps of sound — the very 
 hour of the power of darkness. 
 
 Rising from his paroxysm, the stranger laid 
 hold of the fallen stafi\ and in fiercer and louder
 
 A Forsaken Soul. 163 
 
 tones, fragments of which Enos heard in the 
 lull of the storm, cried : 
 
 ' I will smite thee ! Keep thy breath of 
 fire from off my garments ; I will not carry 
 thy fumes on me ! Thou sayest I am thine ? 
 Never !' And the thorn once more swept the 
 air. ' To be thine ? Never — by God !' And 
 then came a volley of oaths and curses more 
 fearful than the tempestuous voices of the night. 
 
 Then, for a little while the elements drew 
 apart as though for respite, and in the lull the 
 voice was again heard, not loud, nor defiant, 
 but piteous and pleading : 
 
 * If God has forgotten to be merciful,' it 
 cried, ' is there not mercy with thee ? I have 
 asked Him ' (pointing with his hand above) — ' I 
 have asked Him for help, and He showeth no 
 pity towards His servant. Wilt not thou 
 show pity towards me, and, in thy pity, leave 
 me ? Forsaken of God ! Ah ! that were bear- 
 able were I but forsaken of thee ! Leave me 
 alone ! in pity, leave me alone !' 
 
 These v/ords, uttered as to some unseen 
 presence, and addressed to one with whom the 
 speaker seeme.d to talk close at hand, smote
 
 164 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 the heart of Enos with a yearning pain, and led 
 him at once to carry out his daring resolve. 
 He had never before, in his long experience of 
 the moods of the soul, heard a prayer offered to 
 the archfiend for mercy. To him the act was 
 that of mad despair. So, throwing up the 
 rotten sash of the window of the room in which 
 the tormented stood, he got through as nimbly 
 as his aged limbs would allow him, and, stretch- 
 ing out his hands, cried : 
 
 ' No more o' that, maister, no more o' that ! 
 " Call upon Me i' th' day o' trouble, an' Aw will 
 yer thee," says the Almeety.' 
 
 * Brother, His ears are heavy. Yonder 
 heavens are brass. Clouds and darkness are 
 round about Him ' 
 
 * Here, howd thee on a bit !' cried Enos. 
 * Durnd let th' devil quote Scripter to thee. 
 He's a gradely hand at it, aw con tell thi, but 
 he awlus reads th' v/rang sense into 't. Thaa 
 knows he welly upset th' Maister wi' quotin' 
 it i' th' wilderness. But He gav' it him 
 back agen, and His texes (texts) were o'er 
 mich for th* owd sarpent. Naa come, gi' him 
 tex' for tex'.'
 
 A Forsaken Soul. 165 
 
 The stranger stood looking at Enos as though 
 he were the fiend incarnate. The lurid light 
 gleaming in the horrible squint went into the 
 depths of the old man's soul, and for a moment 
 he quailed ; but it was for a moment only, and as 
 his faith rallied, his fear flew, and he continued : 
 
 ' Naa come, tex' for tex' ; not all o' one side, 
 thaa knows.' 
 
 Vv^hen the stranger took in the meaning ot 
 Enos he turned towards the corner of the room 
 from which, as far as look and gesture con- 
 veyed a meaning, the fiend appeared to address 
 his messages of woe. Stooping, as in the atti- 
 tude of one who listened, his features distorted 
 with a convulsive twitch, he suddenly sprang 
 erect, and said : 
 
 ' Hear ye the word : " Clouds without water, 
 trees without fruit twice dead, plucked up by 
 the roots ; wandering stars, to whom is re- 
 served the blackness and darkness for ever." ' 
 
 ' Oh, he's gi'en thi that, has he ^ Tell him 
 to go a bit further i' th' same 'pistle.' 
 
 Again the stranger bent his head to listen. 
 Then, after remaining in this attitude for some 
 moments, he looked up at Enos, and said ;
 
 1 66 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 ' He hath no reply.' 
 
 ' Aw thought as mich, th' owd powse (a dirty 
 person) ! Then aw '11 say it for him. He tried 
 to flay thee aat o' th' 'pistle o' Jude, didn't he.-* 
 Well, thaa con tell him that Jude sez summat 
 else — " Naa, unto Him that is able to keep us 
 fro* fallin', an' present us faultless afoore th' 
 presence o' His glory." Naa, then, ax him 
 what he mak's o' that.' 
 
 A light broke upon the stranger's face, 
 and the fire that flashed in the horrible squint 
 died away. Drawing near to Enos, and laying 
 his hand upon the old man's shoulder, he 
 said : 
 
 ' Art thou an angel of light ?' 
 ' Yi/ replied he ; ' sent to minister to them 
 who shall be heirs of salvation.' 
 
 The darkness again fell on the haggard face, 
 and, shaking his head, the stranger cried : 
 
 ' Then thou art not sent to me, for I am an 
 heir of wrath. Listen !' And, bending his ear 
 towards the ground once more, he muttered, as 
 though he were repeating what he heard, ' It is 
 impossible for those who were once enlightened, 
 and tasted of the good word of God, if they
 
 A Forsaken SouL 167 
 
 shall fall away, to renew them again unto re- 
 pentance.' 
 
 ' Oh, that's it, is it ?' cried Enos. ' Well, thaa 
 con tell him we're noan o'erfaced (daunted) yet. 
 We've a bit o' scripter as we con set agen that.' 
 And he quoted the sixteenth verse of the third 
 chapter of the Gospel of St. John. ' That 'ill 
 tak' some beatin', maister ; an' it's noan what he 
 sez, nor hoo sez, but what th' Lord said Hissel'.' 
 
 ' Help thou mine unbelief !' groaned the 
 man. 
 
 ' Naa thaa'rt comin' raand, aw con yer. If 
 thaa con nobbud get a bit furder, an' say, 
 " Increase my faith," thaa'll soon be maister o' 
 th' devil. Aw'll mak' a prayer. There's 
 naught like feightin' th' devil on yore knees. 
 Th' odds are awlus agen him if yo' get on th' 
 floor to wrostle wi' him.' And the two men 
 knelt down on the damp flags, while Enos 
 agonized for well-nigh half an hour on behalf 
 of the stranger's soul. 
 
 It was an uncouth, weird prayer — loud, im- 
 portunate — a jumble of texts and expressions 
 current with the sect to which he belonged. 
 There was much of the anthropomorphic in it.
 
 i68 The Siirn of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 'b 
 
 and what many would count the irreverent and 
 coarse ; while the uncouth vernacular of the 
 hills lent to the whole a grotesqueness and 
 crudity that would have shocked the ears of 
 the devout. But the old man had grip. He 
 believed he was talking to someone, and to 
 someone who could hear and grant what he 
 asked for. Now he would lie prone ; then, 
 liftinfy himself, he would throw back his 
 shoulders and upturn his face, raising hands 
 which trembled in the passion of his entreaty. 
 Far on the midnight air the storm-winds tossed 
 his cries, and who shall say they v/ere not borne 
 upv/ard to where the child believes prayer is 
 heard ? 
 
 When he ceased the storm had ceased too, 
 and the moon, looking through the rent barriers 
 of cloud, fell on the faces of the two men as 
 they stood erect in the chill room of the Lone 
 House. 
 
 Enos besought the stranger to accompany 
 him home, but in vain. He said he must 
 remain where he v/as ; and after many solicita- 
 tions the old man v/ished him v/ell, and de- 
 scended the brow to his house in the vale,
 
 A Forsaken Soul. 169 
 
 where many awaited him with eager question- 
 ings. 
 
 ' It's what aw towd yo', lads — a case o' pos- 
 session. But we've maistered him. Aw never 
 seed aught Uke it. He took some prayin' aat 
 o' th' hoile, an' no mistake. It were a fair 
 stan'-up feight. By Guy ! but he con quote 
 Scripter ! Aw never yerd aught Hke it !' 
 ' Who doesto mean — th' stranger?' 
 ' Nov/e ; aw mean th' owd chap. He could 
 give chapter and verse like a parson.' 
 ' Yi ; they sen he's a deal o' larnin'.' 
 'But he cannot pray,' said Enos. 'An' 
 what's Scripter baat prayer? — like paader baat 
 fire.' 
 
 On the following morning two men in 
 uniform v/aited on the police at Heatherlow 
 in search of a patient who in the previous 
 week escaped from a retreat in the north of 
 Yorkshire. They had, they said, traced him 
 with difHculty to Dene, where they heard of 
 his renting the Lone Flouse on th-^ moor, but 
 on visiting that habitation, found it tenantless. 
 The police, possessed of the village gossip, 
 accompanied the keepers to the dogger's shop, 
 
 22
 
 170 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 and from there they sought out and interviewed 
 Enos, who told them in few and simple words 
 the story of the previous night, assuring them 
 that when he left the stranger he was ' clothed 
 and in his right mind.' Smiling at the good 
 man's simplicity, they hastened on in their 
 search ; but whether they found their quest was 
 never known in the district and village of 
 Heatherlow. 
 
 Some days afterwards the sergeant of police 
 told Elijah the brief story of the madman s 
 career. A man of genius and many parts, he 
 had been a popular preacher in the North of 
 England, much given to a study of the occult, 
 and dwelling often on the nature and personality 
 of evil. Subject to epilepsy in his boyhood, and 
 overstraining in after-years by much thought 
 his unbalanced brain, the heat of a prolonged 
 revival turned his mind, and he became subject 
 to prolonged periods of delusion and depression, 
 during which he supposed himself to be the 
 child of evil, baptized by the powers of dark- 
 ness into a life of sin. The psychological 
 element in the story created but little interest 
 in the rustic mind of Heatherlow. It was
 
 A Forsaken Soul. 171 
 
 enthralled rather by the elements of mystery 
 and superstition ; and for many months Enos 
 was looked upon with fear as an exorcist, and 
 to his power in prayer was added his dominion 
 over devils.
 
 OWD YEB'S NEMF5IS. 
 
 I. A Morning's Quest. 
 II. Liza's Prayer. 
 III. The Buckled Strap.
 
 I. 
 
 A MORNING'S QUEST. 
 
 * Whatever arto gettin' up so soon for, Sis ?' 
 
 ' To fotch thee a posy fro' th' clough.' 
 
 ' What ! afoore thaa goes to thi wark?' 
 
 ' Yi, afoore aw go to mi wark.' 
 
 ' Thaa's summat else agate beside th' posy, 
 lass ; naa, hasn't ta ?' And the sick girl raised 
 herself in bed, and looked with inquiring eye 
 into her sister's face. 
 
 ' Aw durnd know as it's aught to thee if aw 
 hav', Liza.' 
 
 * Happen not, lass ; but those roses o thine 
 tell more tales nor thi tung.' 
 
 ' Aw tell thee aw'm baan to fotch thee a posy, 
 an' what more doesto want ?' 
 
 ' Aw never said thaa wirnd ; but thaa cornd
 
 176 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 look me i' th' face an' tell me it's nobbud th' 
 posy at's fetched thee aat o' bed at this time 
 o' th' mornin'.' 
 
 ' Liza, thaa wor awlus one for sperrin' (asking 
 questions). Get to sleep wi' thee ; thaa needs 
 it, aw'm sure.' 
 
 * Thaa sez " Get to sleep " ; but who con 
 sleep when thaa'rt marlockin' wi' Jonathan i' th' 
 clough, an' mi faither swearin' he'll be th' deeath 
 o' yo' both .?' 
 
 'Threatened folk live long, lass.' And so 
 saying, the girl combed out her long hair before 
 a rickety looking-glass that refused to retain 
 the angle of vision. 
 
 ' Aw fair tremble for thee. Sis. Thaa knows 
 th' owd mon 'ill noan be set. Sithee! doesto 
 remember that ?' And the girl bared her arm, 
 and showed a scar, whiter than the white flesh, 
 where years before the buckle of her father's 
 belt had fallen in one of his inhuman chastise- 
 ments. 
 
 ' Durnd show me, Liza ; it raises th' dule 
 (devil) i' me, and makes me feel as aw durnd 
 care if he does his worst.' 
 
 ' Do as aw tell thee, lass, an' stop awhom whol
 
 A Morning's Quest. 177 
 
 thaa goes to thi work. Folk never know whose 
 een are on 'em ; an' if he finds thee aat, he'Jl 
 leave his mark on thee an' o', see if he doesn'd. 
 Aw'd rayther he licked me nor thee, ony time, 
 Sis, bad as aw am. Thaa'rt too bonny to 
 be licked, thaa knows ;' and drawing her half- 
 dressed sister towards her, she breathed her love 
 in long caresses. 
 
 *Durnd fret, Liza ; aw'm baan to hav' Jonathan 
 or noan. Aw'm noan partic'lar abaat my skin, 
 noather. A lass is noan worth mich as cornd 
 Stan' a lickin' for th' felley hoo loves.' 
 
 ' He tov/d mi mother t'other neet as he'd 
 swing for thee afore thaa should wed Jonathan,' 
 said the frightened girl. 
 
 ' Well, if he's no more wit, aw cornd help it.' 
 
 ' But thaa's no need to stan' i' th' owd chap's 
 gate, thaa knows, Sis.' 
 
 ' Then he should get aat o' mine, that's o' ;' 
 and the girl slipped on her blouse, and stood 
 once more, defiant in her wrath, before the 
 obdurate glass. 
 
 ' Aw've towd thee. Sis : he sez as he'll kill 
 thee afoore yo' shall get wed.' 
 
 ' Then he'd better start o' th' job, and go 
 
 23
 
 178 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 thro' wi' it. Aw'se find him some wark afore 
 he's finished.' 
 
 ' Durnd talk i' that feshion ; it fair mak's me 
 ill. Aw tell thee, aw couldn't bide to see thee 
 licked.' 
 
 * Aw'se hav' to tak' mi chance, lass, like o' th' 
 rest o' folk i' this world.' 
 
 They were sisters, children of old Ycb. The 
 elder, Eliza, was an invalid, nervous and timid, 
 with a spirit long since crushed by a father's 
 overbearing rule. Sis, the younger, was strong, 
 adventurous, and self-willed, defiant of the 
 tamer's hand, and so ' taking ' as at times to 
 disarm it. 
 
 Old Yeb cared only that his children should 
 be strong enough to work for him. Week by 
 week he pocketed their earnings to spend at 
 the Sheaf and Sickle, the rendezvous of his in- 
 dulgences. His great grievance was the elder 
 girl s affliction ; and so incensed was he at the 
 loss of wage, that he never wearied of charging 
 her with ' gammin',' or declaring that ' hoo wor 
 nobbud plagued wi' th' tireds.' More than 
 once he had driven her to the factory by force,
 
 A Morning's Quest. 179 
 
 when she had fainted in her weakness and been 
 sent home. 
 
 He also used to swear that ' none of his lasses 
 should wed afoore he died,' arguing that duty to 
 parents preceded duty to husbands. This was 
 the ground of the younger one's offence. She 
 was ' keeping company,* as the villagers called 
 it, with Jonathan Fenton, the son of a man 
 whom Yeb hated with all the fierceness of his 
 malignant mind. With fearful imprecations he 
 vowed vengeance on the match, but all to little 
 purpose, for his younger daughter was as defiant 
 as her father was threatening. For the sake of 
 mother and sick sister, the girl ceased to walk 
 openly with the youth ; but surreptitiously the 
 courtship was carried on — the fiercer for its part 
 suppression. 
 
 It was the fear of her father's vindictiveness 
 and her strong attachment towards her sister 
 that created in the mind of Eliza a foreboding 
 of ill. Had she thought less of Sis, the strain 
 would not have been so terrible. The girl was, 
 however, her pet and plaything ; and for many 
 a year her life had been in part sacrificed on her 
 behalf. She saw the inevitable, and shrank
 
 i8o The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 from it. Never before was old Yeb's will 
 defied. Punishments v/ere common in the 
 home — but these were for petty offences — and 
 displays of brutal temper and unbridled wrath 
 on the part of the old man. Now, however, he 
 was flatly disobeyed, and that by a girl not 
 eighteen years of age. So far he had held his 
 hand in abeyance. She v/as his favourite child, 
 and possessed of charms that disarmed him. 
 But he only v.-aited his time ; a day v/ould come 
 — an evil day — when with the cov/ard strength 
 of exasperation the blow would fall, and that 
 with fearful consequence. Eliza knew this, and 
 it made her tremble. 
 
 Suspecting the early ramble of Sis to be after 
 Jonathan rather than after the fiowers, Eliza 
 was troubled and anxious, and turning for the 
 last time towards her sister, said : 
 
 * Naa tak' care o' thisel'. Sis. Durnd get 
 him into his tantrums ; it'll be th' deeath o' 
 me if thaa does. Aw couldn't bide to see thee 
 licked as he used to lick me.' 
 
 ' Durnd thee bother thi yed abaat me, lass. 
 Av/'m baan to hav' Jonathan choose haa ;' and 
 with a kindly look of farewell in her defiant eye,
 
 A Morning's Quest. i8i 
 
 she stole down the stairway in her stockings, 
 then, putting on her dogs in the kitchen below, 
 she let herself out into the village street, where 
 all lay quiet in the hush of dawn. 
 
 It was sunrise, and the tints of morning were 
 glowing beyond the distant hills. Gentle airs, 
 infected with the scent of heather, and burdened 
 with the music of the moorlands, stole down 
 from the heights, cooled by their night wander- 
 ings over miles of herbage, and by the rush- 
 fringed banks of peaty pools. Little flowers 
 were but half awake, lazily opening their petalled 
 lids to the gentle summons of the day, and on 
 each slender blade of grass there sat a jev/elled 
 crown of dew. The dark-olive hues of early 
 hours still shadowed the foliage, and the trees 
 wore the gloom that lingers on the skirts of 
 dawn. Along the road wreaths of dust lazily 
 chased each other, pausing to whirl in playful 
 spirals, then thinning into cloudlets, to fall on 
 leaf and flower like showers of summer snow. 
 It was the matin hour of Nature, when every 
 breath is worth the breathing, and every 
 revelation tells of new-born dav.
 
 1 82 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 As the girl stepped out of the cottage door, 
 her features caught the sunrise, and flamed 
 transfigured in the morning glow. There was 
 within her, too, that other flame — the flame of 
 love — and her awakening passions greeted the 
 awakening day. Tall and lithely built, she 
 walked with the erectness of a queen. The 
 features were too strong to be beautiful, and 
 her defiant eye took from the winsomeness that 
 is woman's charm. A heavy fringe hid the 
 forehead, and rich masses of black hair crowned 
 a proudly-poised head, that rose from a flesh 
 column of neck such as Rossetti loved. The 
 face, however, was arrestive in its charm, but 
 lacked colour, close hours of factory toil having 
 lontr since washed out the rose. 
 
 Over the girl's head and shoulders a shawl 
 of pretentious check was thrown, under which 
 glowed a loosely-fitting, scarlet blouse, gathered 
 round the waist with a leathern belt, her skirt 
 being of closely-wrapping llnsey, and not long 
 enough to hide her ankles, hosed in home-knit 
 stockings, and shod with ' v/ooden shoon.' 
 
 She was the better type of the hard-headed, 
 common -sense Lancashire lass. Her father
 
 A Morning's Quest. 183 
 
 claimed her wage, it is true ; but that was all. 
 She was her own mistress, and knew it, and 
 remained strong in her own self-rule. Devoid 
 somewhat of sentiment, she was free from the 
 gloss that makes unreal the lives of those who 
 move in other circles. Her speech was broad, 
 her manners easy ; but her heart was sound, 
 and her spirit unbroken. Since she had loved 
 Jonathan the heroic in her nature was roused, 
 and she was all the more womanly and true for 
 her father's brutal ' nay ' ; indeed, his opposition 
 but fed the flame of her devotion, and, as she 
 said to her sister, ' It wor either to be Jonathan 
 
 or noan.' 
 
 The girl crossed the road and walked towards 
 the uplands, carolling a ditty, of late the musical 
 outlet for many a passion in that little seat of 
 life — boys whistling it at their play, men strik- 
 ing up an occasional bar in the more thoughtful 
 moods of their toil, and women and girls setting 
 their daydreams and fancies to its simple air. 
 She knew little of what she sang, and cared less ; 
 for hers was the unconscious fulness of the new 
 life of love. Her horizon was luminous with
 
 1 84 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 one presence, towards which she moved, and 
 towards Vv'hich she was drawn. 
 
 Climbing a shoulder of the hill, and rounding 
 another ridge of the valley, she overlooked the 
 Great Clough, a ravine silent and lonesome, 
 torn out of the heart of the moors. Here she 
 stood, shading her eyes from the sun, now above 
 the hills, eagerly scanning the distance for her 
 quest. But there was no human form within 
 sight. Cattle dotted the low-lying meadows, 
 and flocks of sheep grazed along the heights ; 
 a dog was frolicking within the precincts of a 
 distant farm, and a horse browsed quietly in a 
 field not far from where she stood. But it was 
 not for objects such as these her eyes were rest- 
 less and her heart throbbed. 
 
 'Aw wonder what's getten him.^' said the 
 girl half aloud, as she scanned the hills. ' Aw 
 could ha' liked him to ha' bin here th' fust. It 
 looks a bit o'erbold to be waitin' for him i' this 
 feshion — it does, forshure.' 
 
 Then she blushed, and ran down the steep 
 side of the clough towards the trough below, 
 where fiowed in sinuous trend the waters from 
 the hills, pausing in her descent to rest against
 
 A Morning's Quest. 185 
 
 the trees, whose fibrous roots knit together 
 the crumbling banks, and between which ran 
 stretches of bracken covered with hazy vapour, 
 and dreamy vistas of wild hyacinths dim 
 beneath the moist breathings of the morn. 
 More than once she slipped and fell against the 
 gnarled trunks ; but she was a hardy lass, and 
 soon gained the trough, little worse for her 
 stumbling descent. 
 
 Here again she found herself alone — alone 
 under dappling shadows, and by the side of the 
 winding stream glinting under stray shafts of 
 light that fell slantwise between the parting 
 leaves. 
 
 Turning towards the outlet of the clough, 
 she scanned the opening vista, to see nothing 
 but the bending boughs, and sweep of early 
 birds. 
 
 'Aw wonder what's gctten him.-^' she once 
 more said. ' Aw never knew him lat' afoore. 
 Happen aw'm too soon ! It doesn'd look daycent. 
 An' yet, aw couldn't like to be too lat'. Ey, 
 dear ! luv's a maister, an' no mistake. An' yet 
 aw'm noan baan to show aw'm keen. Aw fair 
 wonder what he sees i' me, bless his bonny 
 
 24
 
 I 86 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 een. Aw couldn'd like to loise him. But it's 
 noan reight i' young lasses to be forrard — nor i' 
 owd uns, for th' matter o' that ! Ey, Jonathan 
 lad, arto baan to be long?' 
 
 Suddenly her eye rested on a cluster of golden- 
 rod grov.'ing on a narrow ledge near the top of 
 the rocky head of the clough — tall, slender 
 stems they were, with spirals of bright yellow 
 bending in the breeze. Now, golden-rod was 
 her sister's favourite wilding, and remembering 
 this, she remembered also her promise, made 
 but an hour ago, to gather a posy for that sick 
 girl's bedside. The flowers, however, grew 
 beyond her reach. Even a trained climber 
 would have debated the wisdom of their quest. 
 This determined her — the risk becoming the 
 relish ; and laying hold of the bushes that hung 
 a tangled ladder over the rocky surface, she 
 commenced her ascent. 
 
 It was a picture — that of the climbing girl 
 framed in the greenery of the gorge. Her 
 shawl had fallen, and her supple limbs showed 
 their full proportions beneath the now un- 
 covered dress. Her arms, bare and shapely, 
 swelled under the strain of their muscles, and
 
 A Morning's Quest. 187 
 
 the rhythmic movement of her shoulders was a 
 poem in flesh. And then the long hair fell 
 loose in its dark masses over the red blouse, 
 now displaced by the rapid movements of the 
 climber ; and, as she came level with the ledge 
 on which the flowers waved, a cruel thorn drew 
 a scarlet line across the now flushed face. Nor 
 was the picture lost. He for whom she waited 
 v/as a watcher, pulsing with admiration and fear. 
 
 On reaching the ledge, she seated herself to 
 rearrange her hair and dress, her bosom all the 
 v/hile beating turbulently, and her face flaming 
 with the climb. There she sat, in one of those 
 nooks of vegetation found only in the heart of 
 the hills — a nook screened by overhanging 
 hazel and briar, v/here birds nest and bees 
 murmur, and insects light without fear of chase 
 — there she sat, a captive queen amid her 
 flowers. 
 
 Stretching out her hand, she drew down the 
 slender stems on which the golden spirals grew, 
 and for the possession of which she had risked so 
 much, setting off their yellow bloom with ferns 
 and crag grass, and humming a gleeful air that 
 told of mirthful mood.
 
 1 88 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 The shrill sound of a whistle hroke the 
 silence of the clough, ringing continuous echoes 
 along its fastnesses, and startling the hirds. It 
 startled the girl also, for it was the factory's 
 summons to daily toil, announcing the moments 
 of her freedom as numbered. 
 
 Preparing to descend, she saw, for the first 
 time, the recklessness of the climb. The per- 
 pendicular rock before her forlmde return ; and, 
 looking up, she discovered the level of the 
 moors just beyond her reach. Sis was a prisoner 
 in mid-air, with no foothold save a narrow ledge 
 of vegetation. 
 
 Seeing her only chance was upward, she 
 looked round for Uxjx stones with which to 
 raise herself to reach the overhanging ground 
 above ; but nothing lay at her feet but a tangle 
 of thorns and grass, 'ihen a reckless spirit 
 seized her, and she resolved to risk the descent ; 
 but better judgment ruled, and she lay back, 
 the creature of her self-control. 
 
 Many a time at her looms, as the sun beat 
 through the top-lights of the shed. Sis fretted 
 for the freedom of the hills, little thinking they 
 held a captivity as well as labour. Now, how-
 
 A Morning's Guest. "" 189 
 
 ever, that she was their prisoner, she was all too 
 eager to exchange their silences for the din and 
 closeness of the factory in the vale below. 
 
 As she sat, wondering as to her deliverance, 
 the ludicrousness of the position struck her, and 
 she began to laugh. This, however, was quickly 
 followed by vexation, and she bit her lips to 
 keep back her tears. It was not fear that fretted 
 her ; to that passion she was a stranger. But to 
 sit helplessly on that lofty ledge, with time 
 flying, the relentless whistle screaming, her 
 looms waiting, and all because of her foolhardi- 
 ness, to say the least, stung her to the quick. 
 
 Should she cry for help.^ But who would 
 hear ^ Likely enough the men at the neigh- 
 bouring delph ; and thev — they would mock 
 and take advantage of her helplessness, and 
 wound her modesty with their indecent chaff. 
 No ; she would remain where she was sooner 
 than be lifted by hands such as theirs. 
 
 The minutes passed, and time became im- 
 perative. Again the summoning whistle sounded 
 in the vale — a summons she knew it was dire 
 punishment to disobey. Those greedy looms, 
 all devouring of weft and woman's labour — they
 
 I go The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 were waiting, waiting for her to start their 
 wheels and feed their shuttles and perfect their 
 half-woven pieces for the wrangling buyers at 
 the city mart. Against their claims she could 
 not stand. She must cry out, even as that im- 
 portunate whistle v/as crying — cry out to rouse 
 some ear and gain some help. 
 
 In the moment of ner despair she heard a 
 voice — well known and as dearly loved — the 
 voice of Jonathan, who, beside himself with 
 rapture, stood gazing at his imprisoned queen. 
 
 * Sis, cornd ta get daan ?' 
 
 It was enough — he was there and she was safe. 
 
 His first movement was to spring towards 
 the network ladder up which Sis climbed, but 
 the quick-witted girl waved him back, and said : 
 
 ' Durnd thee come up here an o', or there'll 
 be two on us.' 
 
 That was just what Jonathan wanted — two 
 of them. Yes ; but the tv/ain were one. Sis 
 and himself could sit for ever on that ledge of 
 rock. Was it not large enough for their home, 
 and snug enough for their whispers .? — a lovers' 
 paradise, where the story of the former Eden
 
 A Morning's Quest. 191 
 
 should be retold ? And as Jonathan ravished 
 his eyes on the captive girl, all the grander for 
 her flush of adventure, as well as all the more 
 bewitching for her prison-house of rock, he 
 again made as though he would climb to where 
 she stood. 
 
 ' Thaa mornd come up here, aw tell thee. 
 One foo's enough. Get to th' top o' th' 
 clough, then thaa con poo' (pull) me up, 
 happen.' 
 
 Although Jonathan was delirious with the 
 love passion, his level-headedness led him to see 
 the sanity of the girl's command, so, climbing 
 the ravine where the bank was less steep, he 
 made his way to the overhanging ledge under 
 which the girl stood, and, looking dovY^n, saw 
 her in readiness. 
 
 He threw himself flat on the ground that he 
 might the farther reach over to where she stood 
 on tiptoe with outstretched arm. Then, laying 
 hold of her wrists, he felt the plunging throb of 
 her pulses, and they beat a current of fire 
 through his soul. Their faces met, his bent 
 over, hers upturned, the breath of the girl 
 coming in quick spasms of suspense, her great
 
 192 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 eyes open trustfully — eyes in whose deeps 
 Jonathan was fast being drowned. 
 
 Fortunately Sis retained her self-possession, 
 and suddenly brought Jonathan to his by words 
 almost cruel in their commonplace. 
 
 ' Naa then, Jonathan, durnd be gawmless. 
 Thaa con mak' as mich love as thaa loikes when 
 thaa gets me aat o' this hoile, but tha mun get 
 me aat first.' 
 
 Despite his strength, the task was over- 
 powering ; his purchase was failing him ; he 
 felt he could not draw her by her wrists to 
 the top. 
 
 ' Leave go mi right hand, Sis.' 
 
 Without a falter the girl obeyed, and swung 
 off over the ravine, held by the single arm of 
 her lover. 
 
 Then he bent still further over, and, with 
 one desperate lunge, slipped his freed arm under 
 hers, and, grasping her with an embrace in 
 which fear and love together lent their strength, 
 with one mighty lift he brought her kneeling to 
 his side. 
 
 For a few moments neither spoke. Then 
 Jonathan took the girl's hands once more in
 
 A Morning's Quest. 193 
 
 his own, but this time gently and tenderly, to 
 find her wrists ringed and wealed from the 
 terrible grip in which he had held them. Rais- 
 ing them to his lips, he kissed them, saying : 
 
 ' Ey ! aw've hurt thee, lass.' 
 
 ' Ne'er heed, they're nobbud mi wrists, an' 
 they con stan' it. It's him wee'n getten to 
 heed.' 
 
 And, looking round, Jonathan saw Reuben, 
 the village fool, watching from behind a tree 
 overlooking the clough where the morning's 
 adventure had happened. Then he knew, as 
 the girl knew also, that in another hour the 
 whole country-side would be ringing with the 
 news 
 
 25
 
 II. 
 
 LIZA'S PRAYER. 
 
 A WAVE of excitement swept the village as Daft 
 Reuben's story travelled by currents more subtle 
 and swift than those following the wires that 
 stretched along the roadway and crossed the 
 moors. The fool outran the lovers, and reached 
 the factory gates breathless, colouring his story 
 with the imagination of lunacy. As Jonathan 
 and Sis walked down the alley to their looms, 
 the whole shed was agog, and two hundred 
 pairs of eyes were raised from the flying shuttles 
 and transferred to the youth and maiden, who, 
 all too conscious, confusedly settled to their 
 work. By means of signs and lip movements, a 
 silent interchange of criticism and wonderment 
 passed from weaver to weaver, and in less time
 
 Liza's Prayer. 195 
 
 than it would take to narrate, the whole of those 
 toilers knew one another's minds. 
 
 All through the morning knots of neighbours 
 stood at angles of the pavement, or discussed 
 the news at one another's garden gates. Jona- 
 than and Sis were that day the unconscious 
 cause of many a spoiled dinner, and not a few 
 recriminations between man and wife. 
 
 Old Iron- ears held the floor of the dogger's 
 shop. It was astounding the news that man 
 gathered ; indeed, his deafness seemed to aid 
 him in the information he gleaned. He was 
 doing his best to impress those standing round 
 the counter that there would be murder, ' or 
 summat like it,' at Yeb's house that night, the 
 old man being wild with the story told to him 
 by the daft spy, and vowing that he'd end it 
 ' afoore th' moon wor up.' 
 
 ' He's at th' Sheaf and Sickle naa, primin' 
 hissel' wi' owd tenpenny. Let him get a gallon 
 or two o' that into him, an' it '11 be beltinker, 
 aw con tell yo*,' said Iron-ears. 
 
 * It's come to summat when a felley cornd 
 tackle his childer baat gettin' drunk o'er it,' 
 replied Elijah,
 
 196 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 ' Yon young'st's a malster, aw con tell yo' ; 
 th' owd hap's awlus bin fiay'd on her ever sin 
 hoo were a little un, interjected Tic-tak, who 
 had just come in with a clock under his arm, 
 which he deposited on the counter as he settled 
 down for his afternoon's chat. 
 
 ' An' hoo needs to be an' o', to live wi' yon 
 powse.' It was Asenath who spoke. * Aw fair 
 shame for 'Lijah here havin' him so mich i' th' 
 shop. Owd idle-bones! Aw'd mak' him fend 
 for hissel* if he wor mine, or he'd ha to clam 
 (go without food).' 
 
 ' What arto talkin' abaat, 'Senath .?' asked 
 Iron-ears. 
 
 ' Abaat him as thaa'rt talkin' abaat. Who 
 didto think, hey .'" 
 
 ' Well, aw tell yo', he'll welly kill yon lass 
 to-neet, mind if he doesn'd.* 
 
 ' What's the lass done amiss ? Hoo nobbud 
 wants to ged wed. And why shouldn't hoo.^' 
 
 Iron-ears confessed there was no reason why 
 she should not, or, as he put it, he ' didn't know 
 o' ony lawful impediment.' 
 
 ' Aw con tell thee what th' impediment is — 
 it's brass. Th' owd good-for-naught willn'd let
 
 Liza's Prayer. 197 
 
 ony o' th' lasses wed becose he'd lolse their wage. 
 That's th' top an' bottom on 't.' 
 
 * Yi, an' th' middle an' o',' assented Iron-ears, 
 whose organ of sound for once seemed open. 
 
 ' Th' truest words thaa ever spoke, lad,' said 
 Tic-tak, seating himself beside his clock. 
 
 ' Does he think as lasses 'as naught to do but 
 work for felleys wi' bones i' their backs ?' cried 
 Asenath, now fairly warmed, and glowing with 
 her theme. ' What's a lass for but to get 
 wed, an' hav' childer, and a home o' her own, 
 ey?' 
 
 ' Aw durnd see why a lass shouldn't wark, 
 'Senath. Hoo addles (earns) more at th' factory 
 nor awhom, thaa knows.' 
 
 ' Yi ; an' thaa knows that an' o', Tic-tak. 
 If thaa hadn't wed a four-loom weyver it would 
 ha' bin a poor luk-aat for thee. A deal o' good 
 thi clock-mendin' does thee, though aw know it 
 mak's thee a gentleman i' thi own een.' 
 
 * Th' lass, thaa knows, 'Senath, is nobbud 
 young.' 
 
 'A deal o' room thaa has to talk, 'Lijah, 
 when thaa knows thaa wed me afore aw wor 
 eighteen year owd.'
 
 198 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 ' Happen thaa wed him, 'Senath,' timidly 
 suggested Tic-tak. 
 
 ' Happen what?' 
 
 But Tic-tak was silent. 
 
 ' Thaa'd better keep thi tung i' thi yed, lad, 
 for thaa's noan so mich in it, and what there is 
 is better kept to thisel'. Aw tell yo', yon lass 
 o' owd Yeb's has a reight to wed Jonathan if 
 hoo's a mind.' 
 
 ' But thaa knows what owd Lolly used to say, 
 'Senath ?' 
 
 ' Aw know he said a lot o' foolish things i' 
 his time.' 
 
 'Well, aw'll tell thee. He used to say: 
 *' Ne'er start courtin' afoore yo're eighty ; an' 
 ne'er ged wed afoore yo're eighty-two." ' 
 
 ' An' haa wor th' owd felley baan to keep th' 
 world agate ?' asked Asenath. 
 
 * Aw never ax'd him,' said Iron-ears. 
 
 * Well, aw wed when aw wor a lass, an' 
 aw never sobbed o'er it yet. An' aw've 
 had mi ups an' daans an' o' ; but two agen 
 one ony day, if they'll nobbud pool together 
 like.' 
 
 'An' if they willn'd, what then, 'Senath.?'
 
 Liza's Prayer. 199 
 
 * What then, sesto ? Then th' woman mun 
 pool th' mon along wi' her, that's all.' 
 
 * An' if he willn'd go ?' queried Tic-tak. 
 
 * Then make him ; as thi' wife should ha' 
 made thee long sin'.' 
 
 ' Aw'll tell yo' what,' said Iron-ears, ' there'll 
 be a bonny row up at yon hoile (house) to- 
 neet.' 
 
 ' What hoile ? Yeb's, doesto mean ?' 
 
 ' Yi. Yon lass breeds of her faither. There'll 
 be two on 'em, an' no mistake.' 
 
 ' Well, aw'll back th' lass,' joined in Asenath. 
 ' Hoo's gam', ony road ; an' when a woman's 
 gam', hoo tak's some lickin'.' 
 
 ' An' owd Yeb '11 tak' some lickin' an' o',' 
 moralized Iron-ears. ' He sez he's never bin 
 licked yet.' 
 
 ' That doesn'd say as he never will be ; an' 
 when he is, it'll be wi' a woman — see if it 
 willn'd,' cried Asenath. 
 
 * Thaa knows he welly killed their Liza o'er 
 loisin' her wage ; an' hoo's never like looked 
 up sin'.' 
 
 ' Yi ; but yon's woven wi' different caants 
 (number of yarns).*
 
 200 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 ' Thaa'rt reight, 'Senath ; hoo's a cock 'at '11 
 feight.' 
 
 * Well, aw've three wed, an' aw let 'em pleeas 
 theirsel's ; an' aw durnd know they're ony th' 
 worse for't. If yo' set yo'rsel's agen young folk 
 keepin' company, yo' nobbud set 'em th' harder 
 agate. Let 'em alone, an' they'll mate reight i' 
 th' long-run. Bother wi' 'em, an' they'll go 
 agen yo'. If Yeb had wanted to keep yon two 
 fro' one another, he should ha' let 'em go their 
 own gate.' 
 
 'Yi. Young folk go by contraries; an' 
 there's some mak' 'ats best when they're let 
 alone.' 
 
 'Jonathan's a very daycent lad, isn't he.^' 
 asked Iron-ears. 
 
 * Aw never yerd a word agen him. He 
 teyches at Sunday-schoo', an' latly he's tan 
 to preychin'.' 
 
 * That's one thing as Yeb has agen him. 
 He sez he wants no parsons i' his haase,' said 
 Tic-tak. ' He co's 'em foomerts.' 
 
 ' He's getten' a terrible twist in his inside, 
 somehaa,' Elijah interjected. 
 
 *Aw durnd think he's getten a inside at
 
 Liza's Prayer. 201 
 
 all,' replied his sharp wife. ' If he had, he'd be 
 a bit more considerate o' others, that he would.' 
 ' He's getten a inside for drink, an' no mis- 
 take. Aw'U bet he's sossin' naa (lapping with 
 the tongue, as a dog),' said Iron-ears. ' But aw 
 tell yo' — aw'm some sorry abaat yon lass. He'll 
 peyle (beat to bruise) her to-neet, see if he 
 doesn'd.' 
 
 * Aw welly think, 'Lijah, aw'll go up to th' 
 haase misel', and see what th' owd felley '11 be 
 up to.' 
 
 * Thee stop awhom, lass ; hoo's noan thine, 
 thaa knows. Happen he'll turn on thee an' o'.' 
 
 * Then he'll be th' first mon as ever did ; an' 
 aw con tell thee, he'll noan do it twice.' 
 
 ' He'll noan meddle wi' thee, 'Senath. He's 
 fear'd on thee ; aw yerd him say so,' said Tic-tak, 
 
 ' Aw care noan whether he's fear'd or no. 
 Aw'm baan up to th' haase, choose-haa.' 
 
 All through the day Sis had been working 
 with a vivid consciousness of the coming strife ; 
 Jonathan, too, dimly realized it, and during the 
 dinner-hour did his best to persuade the girl to 
 go home to his mother's, and seek safety there. 
 
 26
 
 202 The Si2:n of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 'G 
 
 This she refused to do, knowuig that her father 
 would follow, and bring disgrace on the cottage 
 of the honest woman whose son she so dearly 
 loved. Then Jonathan declared he would go 
 home with Sis, and fight it out with her father; 
 but this the girl flatly forbade. So it came that 
 the two parted at the factory gate, and Sis 
 walked home alone. 
 
 As she climbed the long brow many eyes 
 were upon her, and many pitied her. Her 
 father was known for his ungovernable temper, 
 and the cruel punishments from time to time 
 inflicted on his children. The girl was a 
 favourite with all, and there was not a cottager 
 but would have ofi^ered her shelter. This they 
 dared not do, however, for all stood in terror or 
 old Yeb. In the whole village there were but 
 two who dared beard him, and they were women 
 — the one Elijah's wife, the other his love- 
 rebellious child. The latter knew she was no 
 match against him in strength. Before him she 
 was frail as the reed in the wind ; but she knew 
 no fear, and she possessed a will. There was a 
 dim consciousness in her mind that will was 
 mightier than brute force. All within her told
 
 Liza's Prayer. 203 
 
 her that whatever punishment he might mete 
 out towards her, her will would conquer. She 
 was granite to bear and omnipotent to do, and 
 in this lay her strength. She might come out 
 of the battle maimed, but if she did, it would 
 be as conqueror ; and if she didn't come out of 
 it, still her father would not have had his own 
 way. That very morning she had said to her 
 sister, ' Jonathan or noan ' ; that was enough — 
 it was ratified by a will as strong as the will of 
 a king. 
 
 She reached home to find her father absent. 
 What a home — her mother weeping, and her 
 sister cowed, and waiting the coming storm ! 
 Upstairs lay the sick girl, trembling in terror, 
 and bathed in the cold sweat of fear. The 
 only one in the house who coolly awaited the 
 crisis was Sis herself. 
 
 A basin of tea stood on the table and a plate 
 of buttered muffins, Vv'hich she pushed aside. 
 
 ' Eyt a bit o' summat, lass,' pleaded her 
 mother ; * thaa'll happen need it afoore th' neet's 
 aat.' 
 
 ' Happen aw shall,' said the girl ; and sitting 
 down, she took the food prepared — the only one
 
 204 '^^^ S^g'^ of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 in the house who that night found an appetite. 
 Putting aside the empty plate, she turned to 
 her mother, and said : ' Aw shornd sleep wi' 
 Liza to-neet ; I'll go i' th* garret.' 
 
 The mother knew full well the reason of this 
 resolve — it was consideration for her sick sister's 
 feelings. If she was to be thrashed, she would 
 be thrashed when no eye but her father's was 
 on her. 
 
 In another moment she climbed the stair, 
 but in passing through the room of the invalid 
 to the one above she was stayed by her voice. 
 
 ' Where arto baan, Sis .'*'" 
 
 ' r th' garret,' she said. 
 
 * What arto baan i' th' garret for V 
 
 ' Thaa knows. Aw'd rayther meet mi faither 
 by hissel'.' 
 
 Then, going to the side of the sick girl's 
 bed, she kissed her. 
 
 ' Aw'll pray for thee, Sis.' 
 
 A hollow laugh came from the drawn lips 
 of the younger girl ; and then, turning towards 
 the bed, she said : 
 
 * Pray for thisel', lass, an' for mi mother. 
 
 * Durnd be so hard, Sis. Come here ;' and
 
 Liza's Prayer. 205 
 
 as she stooped down, the weak and bedridden 
 girl threw her arms round the rebellious one 
 and wept. 
 
 • My arm '11 be like thine to-morn, happen,' 
 said the younger girl. 
 
 ' What doesto mean .?' 
 
 ' Didn'to show me afoore aw went aat this 
 mornin' th' scar mi faither left on thi when thaa 
 lost thi wage ? AwVe noan forgetten it, if thaa 
 has. Thaa tried to freeten me wi' it, but thaa 
 didn't. An' see, aw fotched thee a posy after 
 all ;' and taking a crushed and faded bunch of 
 golden rod from her bosom, she thrust it into 
 the sick girl's released hand. 
 
 For a moment the two girls were silent ; 
 then Sis said : 
 
 * Let's look at that scar agen' ;' and turning 
 back the sleeve of her sister's nightdress, she 
 saw the white mark, whiter than the white flesh 
 — a mark about an inch in length, and glossy 
 with the new skin that had formed over it. 
 
 Looking at it, she kissed it — kissed the scar 
 — and then, turning hastily away, she said : 
 
 ' Aw con Stan' it if thaa did ; aw'm stronger 
 nor thee,*
 
 2o6 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 The long summer's day drew to a close. 
 Silently the curtains of night were drawn, and 
 darkness mingled almost imperceptibly with 
 the light. The stars began to glimmer in the 
 deepening blue, and cool airs fell like a balm 
 on the fevered world. As Sis lay awake on 
 the truckle-bed, the clothes thrown off her 
 because of the heat, she looked through the 
 skylight over her head at the distance and the 
 glory that was seen through that square foot 
 of glass. Occasionally a sound reached her 
 from the village ; then she heard a footfall, and 
 wondered if it was that of the father whose 
 presence she awaited. She heard a girl singing 
 the very song she herself had sung that morning 
 as she wandered out into the clough to meet 
 Jonathan. Then silence fell — the silence of the 
 night. 
 
 Still he came not — the one for whom she 
 waited came not. What a difrerence between 
 the morning's v/aiting and that dread v/aiting 
 of the night ! Within a few hours she had 
 waited for two fates— the fate of love and the 
 fate of cruel hate. Two great relationships 
 were in conflict ; husband and father stood side
 
 Liza's Prayer. 207 
 
 by side with their twin claims, and she was on 
 the side of him whose she had vowed to be. 
 Not that her thoughts were so worded, yet such 
 were the dim musings flitting hke dark birds 
 over the gloomy sky of her untutored mind. 
 
 Still the silence and the horrible suspense ! 
 Hush ! there was a voice, a gentle voice, broken 
 with occasional sobs, and it came from the 
 chamber below. As she strained her ear sht 
 heard it was a prayer — a prayer from the lips 
 of her sick sister. Liza was true to her word : 
 she was praying for her. 
 
 Lifting herself from the tumbled bed, she 
 stole to the stair-head that came up from her 
 sister's room, and, listening, she caught the 
 words : 
 
 ' Soften mi faither's heart, Lord, an' durnd 
 let him lick Sis. Thaa knows hoo means 
 reight, Lord, though hoo will hav' her own 
 road. Hoo's done naught wrong. Lord. Hoo 
 nobbud wants to wed Jonathan ; and he's a 
 daycent felley. Lord — he's turned preycher an' 
 o'. Save both on 'em, an' let 'em wed one 
 another ; and durnd let mi faither beat her, 
 Lord, for Jesus Christ's sake. Amen/
 
 2o8 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 The prayer was choked in its utterance, and 
 put up in simplicity and faith; but was it 
 answered ? 
 
 As the prayer fell on the ears of Sis, she 
 crept back to bed and slept. In so much the 
 prayer was answered, for it brought a great 
 peace into the young girl's soul. The little 
 attic, like many another, was glorified by that 
 subtle presence which saints and sufferers in all 
 ages declare follows prayer. What the awaken- 
 ing might be she cared not, for there came with 
 the prayer the line of an old Hebrew hymn : 
 ' When I awake I am still with Thee.'
 
 III. 
 
 THE BUCKLED STRAP. 
 
 No sooner did old Yeb hear the news from 
 Daft Reuben than he drew himself apart for 
 thought. He v/as a slow man, and it took a 
 long time for facts in their full significance 
 to reach his understanding. The schoolmaster 
 used to say he was one of those into whom 
 truth percolated. One thing was certain : in 
 him was no quick perception. The intuitive 
 was lacking. All that reached him reached 
 him from without, and even then slowly, and 
 in driblets. That which he most quickly saw 
 was in his own interests. In the language ot 
 men, his eye was on the main chance, and this 
 with him was in making his children work 
 for and keep him in indolence and occasional 
 riot. Firmness with Yeb v/as stupidity, and what 
 
 27
 
 2 1 o The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 he called his convictions and ideas were nothing 
 but the prejudice of crass ignorance. He was 
 a sensual man, too, and, like all sensual men, 
 cruel — that is, where he dared to be ; for at 
 heart he was a craven. In his working days 
 in the factory he was the terror of the girls and 
 children, and now that time hung on his hands, 
 he was the terror of his home. 
 
 Being a man of slow comprehension, it was 
 some little time before the length and breadth 
 of his daughter's offending, as told by Daft 
 Reuben, dawned on him — or, as the school- 
 master said, ' percolated through his understand- 
 ing.' Little by little, however, he gathered certain 
 fragments, which when put together patterned 
 a picture wherein he saw a self-willed daughter 
 hanging in the arms of a youth with whom 
 he had forbidden her to speak. He saw, also, 
 four looms standing, and himself deprived of 
 so much income, in the absence of the girl from 
 her morning's work. This, in his eyes and 
 moral judgment, was the climax of the sin. 
 Bad enough, indeed, to be disobeyed ; worse 
 far to be robbed — robbery with him being a 
 fraction less per week of his daughter's earnings.
 
 The Buckled Strap. 211 
 
 Thus the morning's incident shaped itself, 
 assuming proportions of gross exaggeration, and 
 leading to resolves equally as foolish and cruel 
 as the picture was disproportioned. 
 
 The innate dulness of Yeb was also seen in 
 his failure to measure the character of the defiant 
 girl. Why was she not frightened at him? 
 Yes ; and why was he frightened at her ? — this 
 last being by far the more perplexing question 
 of the two. His other daughters turned pale 
 when they heard his footfall, and his wife sat 
 cowed and silent in his presence. And yet this 
 girl, this youngest born, was his equal, nor 
 feared to show it. He groped round his dark 
 and dishevelled mind for a reason, but in vain. 
 At last, in despair, he said : ' Happen it's 'cose 
 hoo tak's after me.' He was, however, only 
 right in part. Sis possessed her father's will, 
 and there the likeness ended. The spirit which 
 in her father was brutalized, in her was toned 
 and saturated with a nobleness and sanity drawn 
 from the now broken-hearted woman whom she 
 knew and loved as mother. Yeb would give 
 way to nobody and for nothing if self were at 
 stake ; while his youngest child was ever givino"
 
 212 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 way, but it was for right and love. Once deter- 
 mined, however, and that for the right, her 
 fingers might have been burned to their stumps 
 before she would have yielded. And this Yeb 
 knew : he was helpless. 
 
 But his authority had been set at naught, and 
 a portion of his weekly income was threatened ; 
 for if the girl married Jonathan four and twenty 
 shillings a week would pass from Yeb's pocket 
 to that of another. No ; it must not be ; as he 
 said, * he mut as weel bury th' lass,' such being 
 his estimate of the relationships of life. He 
 would stop it somehow. But how ? He was 
 powerless to touch Jonathan, and if he touched 
 the girl he knew his chastisement would be of 
 little use. But why should she not have a taste 
 of his belt as well as her sisters — that long, lithe, 
 leathery belt, which he used to unbuckle from 
 his waist and curl with cruel strokes round their 
 naked flesh, many a time drawing blood, and 
 more than once sorely bruising with its steel 
 buckle — why not give Sis a taste of that ? But 
 the more he pondered in his sluggish mind, the 
 more he feared to carry out his purpose. He 
 was a coward in the presence of the girl.
 
 The Buckled Strap. 213 
 
 At last he cudgelled his brains into the 
 activity that engendered an idea — a bright idea. 
 ' Old tenpenny ' was a rare fortiiier of the nerves. 
 With a gallon of that liquor in him he might 
 be able to face up before Sis and give her a 
 taste of the strap, and of its cruel buckle too ; 
 for Yeb relished most the strokes he dealt with 
 the end that was edged with steel. Yes ; he was 
 prepared to swear by * old tenpenny.' It had 
 often nerved him to thrash his wife ; and more 
 than once he had held his own at a stand-up 
 fight, his muscles strung by its elixir. ' Drink 
 wine — think wine/ so someone has said. In 
 more homely phrase Yeb was saying, though 
 unconsciously: 'Drink ale — feight ale.* So it 
 came to pass he found his v/ay about noon to 
 the Sheaf and Sickle, and settled down to recruit 
 himself for the coming conflict with the help- 
 less girl. 
 
 By the time he reached the inn his plans were 
 perfected. He would get ' sharp fresh ' (slightly 
 intoxicated) — just bouncey enough for the job 
 he had in hand ; then, on the girl's return from 
 the factory, turn towards his home, and show her 
 by arguments of leather and steel that only one
 
 2 14 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 master ruled, that master being none other than 
 himself. It had taken some hours of careful 
 planning. It was worth it, however ; and now 
 he saw and grasped, and felt equal to it all. 
 
 There was that afternoon at the Sheaf and 
 Sickle what the landlord called ' a roaring trade ;' 
 for as soon as it was noised abroad that * owd 
 Yeb wor suppin' ale to get his hand in for th' 
 lass's lickin',' not a few of the looser end of the 
 village joined him. 
 
 There he sat, stolid and silent, in the nook 
 by the chimney jamb, a pint pot of the tenpenny 
 before him, sipping like a connoisseur, and 
 allowing the rich aroma of the liquor to linger 
 on his palate, smacking his lips with a gusto 
 known only to those trained in taste for ale. 
 He would not even spoil the flavour bv indul- 
 gence in tobacco, his pipe lying at his side, and 
 in use only between his supplies. 
 
 ' So thaa'rt baan to hav' a local preycher for 
 thi son-i'-law, aw yer.''' It was a rough, greasy 
 man who spoke — Ned o' Sam's. 
 
 ' Well, yo' con do wi' a bit o' grace up at 
 your haase. Leastways, thaa con, cornd ta, 
 Yeb ?' The speaker was a tackier from the
 
 The Buckled Strap. 215 
 
 neighbouring factory who was known as Sim o' 
 Tom's o' th' Tops. 
 
 ' Thaa'll be shappin' religious thisel naa, willn't 
 ta, Yeb? It '11 be summat like to sithi a 
 Method y,' said Billy-baat-cap (the man seldom 
 wore head-gear). 
 
 ' Hasto getten thi black coat yet for Sundos V 
 
 ' Yi, thi prayin' coat, thaa knows, Yeb,' 
 rasped in Ned o' Sam's. 
 
 The old man sat imperturbable, sipping his 
 ale, and allowing the chaff to pass unheeded. 
 
 ' Wor thi lass an' Jonathan doin' a bit o' 
 prayin' i' th' clough this mornin', thinksto, 
 Yeb r 
 
 * Thaa'd better ax 'em,' said Yeb, allowing 
 himself to be drawn. 
 
 ' Nay, it's noan o' mi business,' replied Billy- 
 baat-cap. 
 
 ' Then thaa'd better mind what is thi bisness, 
 that's all ;' and the old man dipped his face into 
 the pint pot that stood on the table before 
 him. 
 
 ' Some folk's terrible independent when they 
 ged up a bit i' th' world, arn'd they, Billy.?' 
 asked Sim o' Tom's o' th' Tops.
 
 2i6 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 ' What do yo' call gettin* up i' th' world ?* 
 said Ned. ' Lettin' yore lasses work for 
 yo'?' 
 
 * Yi ; an' then lickin' 'em wi' a strap if they 
 loise threeha'pence o* their wage !' 
 
 At this Yeb winced, and renewed his ac- 
 quaintance with the fortifying power of the old 
 tenpenny. 
 
 ' Arto baan to yer Yeb's son-i*-law preych 
 o' Sundo?' inquired Billy, in tones of mock 
 solemnity. 
 
 ' Wait whal aw've getten one,' cried Yeb, in 
 tones of exasperation. 
 
 ' Thaa'll hav' one soon enugh, owd lad. When 
 that lass o' thine weds Jonathan it 'ill be a bit o' 
 brass aat o' thy pocket, Yeb, wirnd it ?* asked 
 Sim o' Tom's. 
 
 * Yi ; he'll noan sup owd tenpenny then. 
 He'll be like to put up wi' aliker (sour ale), 
 willn'd he.''' 
 
 ' Aw durnd know what yo' chaps hav' agen 
 me,' remonstrated Yeb. ' Aw've said naught to 
 ony on yo, an aw'm noan axing yo' for naught, 
 Aw've as mich reight here as yo' hav', an' if aw 
 pay for what aw get it's nought to do wi* yo' ;'
 
 The Buckled Strap. 217 
 
 and again the old man imbibed freely of the 
 liquor. 
 
 During the afternoon and evening others 
 flocked into the taproom, and as the hours 
 passed the chaff became more personal and 
 loud. 
 
 'Arto baan to ax me to th' weddin', Yeb?' 
 asked Dick o' Mary Ann's, a sharp-faced youth 
 of two-and-twenty. 
 
 ' Nov/e, av/'m sure,' said Billy - baat - cap. 
 * He's o'er flayed thaa'd v/alk off wi' another 
 lass, as Jonathan's baan to do.' 
 
 ' We mornd be too hard on th' owd felley, 
 o' at once, thaa knows ; if thaa taks his lasses 
 thaa taks his wage.* 
 
 'Aw never axed noabry for naught i' mi life,' 
 cried Yeb, in tones of suppressed wrath. 
 
 * Nowe, owd lad ; thaa's taken it baat axin'. 
 That lass o' mine 'at works aside o' thine tell'd 
 me haa thaa keeps her baat meat while thaa 
 swallers all hoo addles. Hoo mony a time axes 
 her to bite her baggin wi' her, cose hoo cornd 
 bide to see her clam.' 
 
 ' It's a d d lie !* roared Yeb. ' By Guy ! 
 
 aw '11 make him pay for it as sez it, whoever he 
 
 28
 
 2 1 8 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 may be ! Aw've a bit o' brass yet ; but aw'll 
 spend it i' law afoore aw'll hav' mi character ta'en 
 away like this !' 
 
 ' Haa long hasto had a character, Yeb, 
 thinksto?' asked Billy-baat-cap. 
 
 ' Ever sin' he licked their Liza wi' his strap 
 and buckle and welly cut her arm off,' quietly 
 replied the man whom Yeb had threatened with 
 law. * Aw'll tell thee what it is, Yeb, thaa ought 
 to be ashamed o' thisel'. Thaa's as daycent a 
 wife as ever wore shoe-leather, an' as gradely a 
 lot o' lasses as ony i' th' parish, an' thaa does 
 naught but sup away their brass, and when 
 thaa'rt not suppin' thart idlin', an' wur. An' 
 what hasto agen Jonathan? He's a deal too 
 good for th' likes o' thee, if he isn't for th' lass. 
 Sup less ale, lad, and work a bit more, an' tha'll 
 hav' more respect and a char — ac — ten' This 
 last word being drawn out with strong emphasis. 
 
 ' What ! thaa's turned parson an' o', hasto ?' 
 cried Yeb, ' Thaa's nobbud to practise a bit, 
 an' they'll find thee a job up at th' chapel. 
 Thaa'rt a bonny un to preych, an' no mistake. 
 Why, thaa were drunk thisel' last Setterdo neet 
 — aw seed thee.'
 
 The Buckled Strap. 219 
 
 ' Yi ; but it wor wi' mi own brass, owd 
 lad, an' aw didn't tak' it aat o' other folk. Aw 
 con do wi' a glass ; but aw pay for 't, an' durnd 
 rob noabry else noather.' 
 
 This was more than Yeb could bear, so with 
 a slow movement he raised himself from his 
 seat, and, crossing the room, went out, turning 
 his steps towards his home. 
 
 He was not drunk — indeed, he seldom was ; 
 only ' sharp fresh,' as he called it — fortified for 
 the little duty he had so carefully planned, and 
 which he purposed so speedily to carry out. 
 For all this, he climbed the brow towards his 
 home with timorous step, and was not a little 
 surprised to find himself staggering under what 
 he called ' a mazy baat.' It was not the fumes 
 of the tenpenny ; he knew those too well ; no, 
 it was something never felt before. He reeled, 
 then leaned against the wall for support, and, 
 recovering, continued his homeward way. But 
 his tongue felt too large for his mouth — it was 
 as though it were swollen and heavy. Then an 
 uncanny feeling came over him. Were these 
 strange sensations a warning, the loosening of 
 some pin in that firmly-knit frame, a crack in
 
 220 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 that solid-set structure ? A moment's thought 
 assured him, however, that it was none of these 
 — only a little nervousness induced by the task 
 before him, for, despite the fortification of the 
 tenpenny, he was afraid of his child ; he could 
 not overcome the innate dread he had of her. 
 
 * Aw think aw '11 try a Scotch,' said he, as he 
 passed a public-house. ' It's a dule of a disease 
 'at whisky willn'd cure ;' and with this common- 
 place of the vulgar on his lips he made his way 
 to the bar, and swallowed a vile decoction that 
 for the moment tingled through all his nerves, 
 and made him feel a stronger man. ' That's 
 better,' said he ; ' aw'm more mysel' like — ready 
 for onything, pitch-and-toss or manslaughter, it 
 durnd matter mich. Aw'll mak' yon lass smart 
 to-neet, see if aw durnd ! Aw'll peyle (beat or 
 bruise) her till hoo promises hoo'll hav' naught 
 more to do with yon wastril ;' and so saying, he 
 unbuckled the strap from his waist, and passed 
 under the door of his dwelling. 
 
 A paraffin lamp was burning on the table, at 
 the side of which sat his wife, pale and trembling. 
 The dim flame showed the wreck of a noble 
 womanhood — a wreck wrought by the selfishness
 
 The Buckled Strap. 221 
 
 and brutality of man. A book lay open at her 
 side, v/hich she sought to withdraw on his 
 sudden entrance. She was too late, however, 
 for he seized it, and throwing it on the fire, said : 
 
 ' None o' yore Methody rubbidge i' mi haase.' 
 Then glaring round, he cried : ' Where are th' 
 lasses r 
 
 The woman meekly pointed above. 
 
 ' Hasto lost thi tung .? Thaa'd — bet — ter — 
 try— an' ' 
 
 It seemed as though Yeb had lost his tongue- 
 The sensation was again coming over him ; he 
 could not finish his threat. In a little while he 
 recovered himself. 
 
 * Is Sis upstairs, an' o' ?' 
 
 * Yes,' said the woman. 
 
 ' Which room is hoo in .?' 
 
 * Hoo's i' th' garret.' 
 
 ' Oh ! hoo's i' th' garret, is hoo ? Hoo thought 
 hoo'd mak' me climb as mony steps as hoo 
 could, did hoo.f* O' reight ; aw'll lay on her as 
 mony times as aw've steps to climb — fifteen to 
 th' chamber, an' seventeen more to th' garret — 
 thirty-two, isn't it.'' Hoo'Il get thirty-two 
 straps for her trouble, that's o'.'
 
 222 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 * Durnd be hard on th' lass, Yeb ; hoo's 
 nobbud a child, thaa knows, an' th' young'st.' 
 
 ' Yi, an' th' worst. Hoo's a deal o* 
 lickin's to make up for to-neet ;' and the man 
 swung the strap round his head and brought the 
 steel buckle down with a sharp crash on the 
 table, dinting the hard wood. 'That'll give her 
 beltinker, aw bet.' 
 
 ' Yeb, thaa shalln'd touch yon lass wi' th' 
 belt ;' and the woman rose and stood, for once 
 in her life, defiant, between her husband and 
 the stairway door. 
 
 * What sesto.'" cried Yeb, doubting both his 
 eyes and ears. 
 
 * Aw say as thaa shall never touch yon lass 
 wi' that belt o' thine, so naa thaa knows.' 
 
 ' Stan' clear, or else aw'll punse thee I' shouted 
 Yeb, lifting his clog ; but the woman held her 
 ground. ' Here goes, then ;' and he stepped 
 back for purchase power, so that his iron-shod 
 shoe might the deeper wound the flesh of the 
 woman he had sworn to love. 
 
 The kick was never delivered, nor did Yeb 
 ever lift that foot again — a blow from an unseen 
 hand smote him. Another had wielded, not a
 
 The Buckled Strap. 223 
 
 buckled strap, but that which did its work more 
 unerringly ; and when his wife stooped over 
 him on the floor she saw a drawn face, with 
 mouth and eye twisted in horrible contortion. 
 Nemesis, good or evil, had overtaken him. He 
 lay in the grip of a stroke. 
 
 For upwards of two years Yeb lay helpless, 
 all his moods watched and all his wants met 
 with tenderest solicitude by the wife and children 
 whom in the past he used with so rough a hand. 
 Many a time in his dull mind would he think 
 of days gone by, and in his way thank Pro- 
 vidence his purpose towards Sis had been frus- 
 trated by another hand, knowing as he did that 
 murder was in his heart on that fateful night. 
 Few wept his death, though there were those 
 who missed in him a type of a rude pro- 
 vincialism that neither religion nor custom was 
 able to tame.
 
 THE SEVEN STARS. 
 
 I. A Fallen Star. 
 II. A Mother's Wail. 
 III. LiEE AND Death. 
 
 29
 
 1. 
 
 A FALLEN STAR. 
 
 A STUDENT of human nature would have seen 
 much suggestiveness in the two faces as thrown 
 into relief by the flicker of the fire. Both were 
 shadowed ; but that of Asenath, like an even- 
 ing sunset after a day of storm, was luminous 
 with prophetic light. The shadow on the girl's 
 face, however, was dark and unrelieved — a 
 shadow not of sorrow, but of shame. 
 
 They were strong faces, though Asenath's 
 was the stronger by the stress of forty years, 
 while a line of weakness lurked round the 
 mouth of the girl that found no play on the 
 lips of the elder woman. It was the strength 
 of obedience and the strength of wilfulness — 
 patience wrought by experience, and impatience 
 goaded by restraint. The faces were typical of
 
 228 The Sig-n of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 'to 
 
 years rather than character — of what one had 
 passed through and of what the other had 
 entered on, and must needs pass through with 
 tears — if she could weep them — and with long 
 hours of pain which no hand could ease. 
 
 The younger one was rich and full with the 
 glory of opening womanhood, and, even in 
 shadow, there hung around her the intoxicating 
 charm, that not only betrays an easily yielding 
 nature, but is so seductive to those who come 
 within its zone. The firelight heightened the 
 glow on the rounded cheek and flashed back 
 from the defiant eye, lingering among the stray 
 fringes of hair that crowned the brow, and 
 touching them into an aureole that ill became 
 one so proud and so earthly. And yet, while 
 of the earth, she was of the earth beautiful, and, 
 as ever, it was v/ith this earthly beauty she had 
 ruled, and, in turn, been ruled by those whom 
 she had drawn by her charms. 
 
 As the women sat in silence, Asenath 
 wondered how it was such a premium of risk 
 was put on beauty. ' It's strange,' said she, 
 partly to herself — ' it's strange that th' devil 
 leaves ill-favured (plain-looking) lasses to
 
 A Fallen Star. 229 
 
 theirsel', while them as th' Almeety mak's 
 gradely lookin' connot walk aat baat bein' fol- 
 lered by all mak's o' rubbidge ! There's 
 summat wrang somewhere.' And then, turning 
 to the girl, she said : ' Tira, if thaa'd skenned 
 thaa wouldn'd a' bin as thaa art naa ; it's ragged 
 uns, an' bonny uns, at's baan to be pooled at, 
 thaa knows. My mother used to say 'at lasses 
 an' cherries wor painted for their own ill. An' 
 hoo wor reight. Th' rosiest cheeks and th' 
 rosiest cherries go th' first, durnd they.'*' 
 
 *Then yo' mun blame Him as painted 'em, 
 that's o'.' 
 
 * Nay, lass ; thaa'rt goin' a bit too fur naa. 
 It doesn'd follow becose thaa'rt bonny thaa's 
 ony need to be bad, thaa knows. If thaa'd thi 
 life to come o'er again thaa'd rather carry them 
 een o' thine nor een like skennin' Jane o' th' 
 Fold naa, wouldn't ta.'*' 
 
 The girl made no reply, but continued to 
 look into the fire. She was proud of her beauty, 
 and she knew it ; and she knew also Ase- 
 nath was no stranger to the spirit of pride that 
 possessed her. Asenath's rude knov/ledge of 
 her heart had startled her, and she felt that if
 
 230 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 life were hers again, and she held a choice, she 
 would take beauty, despite its risks. Then, 
 turning to the woman, she said : 
 
 * They might let lasses alone, ony road, 
 Asenath.' 
 
 * An' if they did, noan 'ud be as ill off as th' 
 lasses thcirsels. Aw've bin a lass, Tira ; an' it's 
 human natur' to be praad o' bein' follered by a 
 felley (sweetheart). Th' Almeety's made th' 
 world to go its own gate, an' we's be like to 
 go wi' it. But that doesn'd say as we need mak' 
 foos o' aarsels. Does thi faither know ?^ 
 
 ' Nowe/ said the girl, shaking her head. 
 ' Does onybody know ^ 
 
 * Nobbud them as has guessed.' 
 
 ' Then thaa's said naught to nobry 
 
 ' Nowe ; nobbud to thee.' 
 
 ' Well, thaa mun face it like a woman as thaa 
 art. Durnd go and mak' bad wur. There's 
 trouble o' all sort i' this world ; but thine's a 
 heavy one becose thaa's brought it on thisel' ; 
 but thaa'll pool through if thaa nobbud does 
 reight. Pike thisel' together agen as soon as tha' 
 con, and howd thi yed up. Thaa knows what 
 aw mean ; keep thisel' to thisel'.'
 
 A Fallen Star. 231 
 
 The girl shook her head, as if doubting the 
 woman's word of prophecy, and a tear glistened 
 in her eye and glinted in the firelight, into 
 which she still steadily looked. 
 
 ' Ony road, lass, if he ever weds thee, it '11 
 be by thee keeping him off. There's naught 
 mak's a fellow so fain as lettin' him see as yo' 
 can do baat him. A lass never wants to foller. 
 Hoo should mak' up her mind hoo'll be follered, 
 or be left alone. When thaa's getten it all o'er, 
 keep to thisel', aw tell thee, and he'll wed thee 
 — see if he durnd.' 
 
 ' Aw durnd think as mi faither 'ill ever for- 
 give me, do yo', Asenath.'*' 
 
 ' He'll tak' it hard, aw know, for he's bin 
 some praad o' his lasses — an' he's need to be, 
 an' o'. An' thaa wor awlus his favourite, thaa 
 knows. But thaa's made thi bed, lass, and thaa'll 
 hav to lie on't.' 
 
 *Aw could Stan' aught if it wirnd for mi 
 faither, Asenath ;' and the girl wept convul- 
 sively and buried her head in the woman's 
 lap. 
 
 * Thaa should ha' thought o' thi faither afoore, 
 lass. After wit, thaa knows, is no wit at all.
 
 232 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon 
 
 If it were, a mony o' us 'ud be different fro* what 
 we are. Thi faither '11 hav' to be like hundreds 
 afoore him — swallow what he noan likes. It's 
 a deal better nor chewin' it tell yo're sick 
 oer It. 
 
 ' Ey, thaa's a hard un, Asenath,' said the girl, 
 raising her head, and looking up into the face of 
 the strong woman. 
 
 ' A hard un, am aw, Tira ?' replied the 
 woman, taking the rosy cheeks with their ripe, 
 full lips, between her coarse hands — ' a hard un, 
 didto say ! Then why didto come an' tell me 
 thi trouble, ey.^ Mi heart fair warchs (aches) 
 for both thee an' thi faither ; but heart-warch is 
 noan en' ugh i' th' troubles o' life. Aw'm noan 
 agen folks' pity ; but pity's poor stuff if it doesn'd 
 show itsel' in pikin' a body up when they fall. 
 An' then, thaa's summat else to think abaat beside 
 thisel' and thi faither, thaa knows ;' and the 
 woman looked steadily into the girl's eyes, who 
 read in them Asenath's meaning, and for the 
 first time there came thoughts of the responsi- 
 bilities of life in its advent and possibilities. 
 ' Ony road, thaa knows who thi friend is, Tira, 
 an' if aw'm noan soft o'er thee, it doesn'd say as
 
 A Fallen Star. 233 
 
 aw durnd love thee, and will'nd help thee.' And 
 so saying, she stooped and kissed the girl's up- 
 turned face. 
 
 * Wilto tell mi faither for me, Asenath ?' 
 pleadingly asked the girl. 
 
 * Nay, lass. Aw think thaa'd better tell him 
 thisel'.' 
 
 ' Aw cornd ; aw'll leave whom first. Aw 
 cornd face him.' 
 
 * Tha'll be like to do it, Tira. It '11 be th' 
 best for thee.' 
 
 ' Ey, if mi mother had nobbud been alive, aw 
 could ha' towd her.' 
 
 * Hoo'd ha' needed no tellin', lass. A mother 
 knows all abaat her childer by instinct. But 
 thi mother's i' heaven, thaa knows.' 
 
 ' An' dun yo' think hoo'll know all abaat it 
 up there .'*' 
 
 'Happen hoo will, but then, they see wi' 
 different een nor we do.' 
 
 ' Bless yo' for sayin' that, Asenath ! mi 
 mother knows aw'm noan a bad un, if mi faither 
 an' other folks think aw am ; but haa mun aw 
 tell him .?' 
 
 * Well, aw'll go wi' thee, for thaa knows it's 
 
 30
 
 234 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 nobbud reight he should know. He's thi faither, 
 howsomever he talc's it.' 
 
 * Let's go naa, an' ged it o'er. Mi sisters is 
 up at th' practice, an' he'll be by hissel'.' 
 
 * Come along, then, th' sooner th' better. 
 
 Old Fenton Lord, as he was called, was 
 largely what his nature and his religion had 
 made him, some of his friends, and not a few 
 of his enemies, declaring that the latter was the 
 cloak of his nature rather than the seamless robe 
 of a renewed heart. He was a proud man — 
 proud of what he used to speak of as his ' high 
 calling,' another name for his religion, and 
 proud of his children, whom he called his 
 ' stars.* There were three things in the observ- 
 ance of" which he never failed : he paid his way 
 and ruled his home with diligence ; he read his 
 Bible and said his prayers ; and he never missed 
 the services at the little chapel on the hill. But 
 while he paid his way, he always exacted the 
 uttermost farthing ; and his prayers were 
 unctuous with a gratitude that he was not as 
 other men, while his attendance at the chapel 
 was as perfunctory as his attendance at the
 
 A Fallen Star. 235 
 
 factory where both he and his children worked. 
 The members of the sect to which he belonged 
 spoke of him as a ' pillar of the church,' and no 
 pillar that ever propped a gallery, or carried a 
 roof in sacred shrine, was more stony or cold 
 than he. His life was that of a rude faith in 
 its most exaggerated form ; indeed, he was the 
 excrescence of the sect to which he belonged — 
 not a type, but a wen on its healthy, though 
 somewhat grotesque, face. He had seven 
 daughters, whom he used to speak of as his 
 seven stars, and whom he had gone so far as to 
 name after the seven churches. These names, 
 however, were too cumbersome for general use, 
 the neighbours cutting them down for simplicity 
 into crude sobriquets that fell glibly from their 
 tongues. 
 
 Little wonder Fenton Lord was proud 
 of his seven daughters, for they were comely 
 girls, and the cynosure of many a young man's 
 eye. Down at the factory, where they ran their 
 looms, they stood head and shoulders above the 
 crowd of weavers among whom they worked, 
 holding at bay many a longing swain who would 
 fain have persuaded them to link their lots v.'ith
 
 236 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 them in wedded Hfe. Up at the chapel on the 
 hill they were the leaders among the trebles 
 and contraltos in the choir, and lent their voices 
 lustily to the service of that rural shrine. They 
 were what the villagers called ' clever with their 
 fingers ' ; using their needles as by instinct, 
 and their cottage home was gay with the 
 adornments of their handiwork. Like the 
 Roman matron, they were held above suspicion ; 
 and while the breath of scandal dimmed the lustre 
 of many a girl's character, so far the seven stars 
 had shone resplendent. 
 
 On all this their old father had trespassed, 
 not being forgetful to boast, and to credit it 
 to himself and his excellency of training. 
 He was the first to sneer when another 
 man's child went wrong, and ready with his 
 pungent criticism on the home training of those 
 whose lives were broken by slip and stumble. 
 This raised up for him many enemies, and not 
 a few were ready to prophesy that his turn 
 would some day come, and, if the truth must be 
 told, many anticipated that day with no little 
 joy. And yet the girls themselves were with- 
 out enemies, the favourites of all ; yet, at times,
 
 A Fallen Star. 237 
 
 speculation was rife as to which of them would 
 be the child of misfortune when that dark 
 mother should kneel before Fenton Lord's 
 door. Nor was the vulgar and selfish prophecy 
 in vain. Misfortune had come at last, and 
 his threshold was no more sacred than that 
 of any other home in Heatherlow. And the 
 lot had fallen on the bonniest girl, on the 
 brightest of the stars, on her upon whom her 
 father set highest esteem, and on whom he most 
 foolishly doted. Tira had been tempted, and 
 in her temptation proved once more the frailty 
 of womankind. 
 
 It was no child's play, no comedy, that lay 
 before Asenath and Tira, and both felt this. 
 How to break the news to the old man they 
 knew not ; yet both felt that broken it 
 must be. 
 
 As they walked in the quiet of the evening 
 towards the old man's door neither spoke, so 
 heavy and so uncertain was the immediate hour. 
 At each step Tira thought less and less of her- 
 self, and more and more of him whose life was 
 so soon to be rudely awakened by one fell blow. 
 She began to care little as to the consequences
 
 238 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 that would fall on her own head, and conjured 
 up the dismay and despair of that proud father's 
 heart when once he knew what she now knew 
 only too well. She pictured him as they would 
 find him — before an open Bible, with spectacled 
 eye, reading of the famous men of old or of 
 their famous words. A hard face, she knew — 
 to many, a face that told of pride and unforgive- 
 ness ; and yet a face to her ever tender, a face 
 in which she had often read fondness for her 
 girlish moods and ways. And what would be 
 its first expression ? Pity or scorn, anger or 
 pain ? Well, it was too late now. The sooner 
 over the better for them both ! 
 
 * Haaever shall we break th' news to him, 
 Asenath?' she asked of the woman who walked 
 at her side. 
 
 * We'll leave that to th' minute, lass. Th' 
 Almeety awlus has a road aat for folk that mak' 
 up their mind to do th' thing that's reight.' 
 
 * Aw'll tell thaa what, Asenath. Aw think 
 aw'll let it tak' its chance an' say naught abaat 
 it. He'll find it aat soon en'ugh. Aw cornd 
 Stan' tellin' him.' 
 
 * He's know to-neet, or my name's noan
 
 A Fallen Star. 239 
 
 Asenath. It's as little as thaa con do to tell 
 him, an' sooner thaa get's it o'er wi' an' th' better. 
 Sithee, there's a leet i' his winder. Come on, 
 and God help us !' And seizing the girl's arm, 
 the woman dragged her towards the parental 
 roof. 
 
 It was as Tira conjectured. The old man 
 was sitting with spectacled eye over the open 
 Bible, reading of Gideon and Barak and 
 Jephtha. Looking up as they entered, and 
 seeing Asenath, he said : 
 
 ' What brings thee here, lass .'' It's good for 
 sore e'en, an' no mistak', to see thee !' 
 
 Seating herself by the fire, Asenath said : 
 
 ' Tira here is i* trouble, and aw've come wi' 
 her to talk it o'er wi' yo' ;' and then, under her 
 breath, she breathed a prayer of thanks to God, 
 that she had taken her first plunge into the 
 dark waters that lay before them all, and through 
 which father and daughter were about to pass. 
 
 'Tira i' trouble?' said the old man, laying 
 aside his spectacles. ' Tira, didto say ^' 
 
 ' Yi,' continued Asenath. ' It's awlus them 
 as we love best as wee'n most to suffer for, 
 isn't it V
 
 240 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 * Tira in trouble ?' again asked the old man. 
 ' What trouble mut Tira geet into, ey ?' 
 
 ' Why, it's one o' them troubles, thaa knows, 
 *at women's had ever sin' th' world started.' 
 
 But the old man was dense ; he either would 
 not, or could not, understand. 
 
 * Thaa knows women are awlus i' ill luck 
 either one way or t'other, arn'd they?' said 
 Asenath, feeling herself in a tight place. 
 
 For a few moments no one spoke, Tira's 
 father sitting with a blank look on his face, and 
 vainly trying to solve the meaning of Asenath's 
 enigma, the solution of which was farthest from 
 his mind. At last a light dawned on his face, 
 and he asked : 
 
 ' Has hoo getten bagged (discharged) fro' th' 
 factory ?' 
 
 * It's summat wur nor that,' said Asenath, in 
 tones that told of the sorrowfulness of her 
 errand. 
 
 'Has hoo been sayin' summat as hoo shouldn'd.'' 
 Hoo were awlus a bad un at keepin' her tung 
 atween her teeth. Happen they're baan to sarve 
 me wi' a writ for summat as hoo's said ; but 
 aw'm noan baat brass.'
 
 A Fallen Star. 241 
 
 ' Nowe ; it's naught hoo's said.' 
 
 * Is it summat hoo's done, then .?' asked the 
 old man, the nature of the trouble dawning on 
 him. 
 
 ' Yi ; aw believe it is. But thaa mun forgive 
 her, thaa knows.' 
 
 The old man bent his head over the Bible, 
 shame and confusion covering his face. He 
 was too proud to weep, and he loved his child 
 too dearly to smite her, or to lose control 
 in his punishment of her. In the twinkling of 
 an eye the wheels had been removed from his 
 triumphal chariot, and he found himself and his 
 children in the slough over which the over- 
 whelming waters were fast flowing. The 
 escutcheon, guarded with such care, was at last 
 blotted with a stain the years could not erase ; 
 his pride was changed to shame. 
 
 At last he looked up with tearless eye, and a 
 face sore aged since the breaking of the news, 
 and turning to the girl, he said : 
 
 ' Tira, thaa'rt a fallen star.' 
 
 ' Yi,' said Asenath. ' But hoo's a star for 
 all that ; an' one o' thine, an' all. Him as is 
 aboon has forgiven th' lass, an' thaa mun forgive 
 
 31
 
 242 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 her an o'. Awm 'ill off for thee, Fenton, and 
 for th' lass an' o'. Thaa knows aw've had mi 
 troubles in mi time ; an' if aw've never bin 
 'shamed by my childer, aw've had to bury 'em. 
 If it doesn'd come i' one way, it comes i' another ; 
 an' we connot pike for aarsel's — an' happen it's 
 as weel we cornd. But thaa mun stick to Tira, 
 thaa knows ; hoo's thine, though hoo is a fallen 
 star, as thaa co's it.' 
 
 * Thaa mut know as aw shall never turn mi 
 back o' one o' mi childer, Asenath ; but aw's 
 never howd my yed up agen. An' thee an' o' 
 Tira — aw could never o' thought it o' thee I' 
 
 And that night, long after the stars had set 
 in peaceful slumber — save she who had fallen — 
 the old man sat over the gray ashes of his 
 household hearth, grayer ashes in his bosom and 
 a chill darkness of despair, while low on his 
 horizon hung a black star, shadowing with its 
 gloom the remaining glory of his family con- 
 stellation.
 
 II. 
 
 A MOTHER'S WAIL. 
 
 It was from the depths of Fenton Lord's nature 
 there came the cry : ' Aw's never hovvd mi yed 
 up agen.' For long he had held it proudly — 
 held it high above his neighbours ; nor turned 
 it in pity when theirs were hung beneath mis- 
 fortune and shame. Once more it was the un- 
 expected that happened. His offspring, in 
 whom was his confidence, had failed him ; his 
 favourite child was beneath the shadow of a 
 great shame. He knew that in many a home 
 in the village this would have been taken as a 
 matter of course ; the circumstance was common, 
 and little was thought of it. But it was his 
 home — his child. He had staked all on the 
 faith that his girls were not as other girls ; and 
 now the choicest ot them had proved to him,
 
 244 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 and to the neighbours, that she was of like 
 passions with the rest. He felt that it would 
 have been better to bury her in an odour of 
 respectability than keep her a living example of 
 disgrace. Yet he held no feelings of revenge 
 towards the girl. The thought of turning her 
 adrift never came into his mind ; nor was he 
 morally incensed. The cry of his heart was the 
 cry of pride ; the poignancy to him was in the 
 discovery, the publicity, and the sneers of those 
 whom he had upbraided in like hours of family 
 sorrow. The awfulness of the sin was in 
 its punishment, and in its punishment on him- 
 self. 
 
 Lord, like old Yeb, was a man of slow mental 
 processes, but when once his mind was fixed it 
 remained immovable. Throughout the months 
 prior to the day he dreaded, he planned and re- 
 planned how best to meet the misfortune, his 
 own pride ever the uppermost factor. Now, 
 pride is cruel and relentless. No wonder, there- 
 fore, that the old man's wish was dark — so dark 
 that at times, hard as he was, he shrank from it. 
 Yet he found himself cherishing it, and hugging 
 its ugliness to his heart. At dead of night,
 
 A Mother's Wail. 245 
 
 when the wind smote his moorland home, and 
 sweeping rains lashed his lattice, he would toss 
 and tumble, haunted by the vision of a little 
 child, new-born, but dead — a tiny form whose 
 advent meant a nameless grave in a shadowy 
 corner of the lone churchyard ; and as he saw 
 in his vision the stealthy tread of the nurse with 
 burdened arms, and followed her along the 
 winding upland path to watch her return empty- 
 handed, he started as he heard himself repeat 
 * Amen/ 
 
 Yes ; this was the thought cherished by Lord 
 — so cherished that he found himself praying 
 for its realization ; and he had said ' Amen ' to 
 a little child's untimely death. And all to save 
 his pride. He alone needed, called for, atone- 
 ment ; a father's honour, rather than that of his 
 daughter, must be appeased, and appeased by 
 death. 
 
 And if the child were alive, and lived, what 
 then } For that possibility faced him. Then 
 it must be banished. There were those who 
 would remove it and nurse it — homes, far away, 
 where nameless little ones bore the brand of a 
 shame of which they were guiltless — banished
 
 246 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 because of pride that would not brook memory, 
 because of society that counted maternity a 
 question of Jaw, and not of Jove. 
 
 Thus, in the narrow circle of pride and self, 
 the oJd man reasoned. He loved Tira, and 
 meant to keep her ; he loathed her disgrace, and 
 meant to banish the thing that would be a re- 
 minder of it to himself and to others. He held 
 a dim idea that the presence of the child would 
 keep open the sore, and that in its absence time 
 would heal, and administer the potion of forget- 
 fulness, in which the memory of so many deeds 
 is lost. 
 
 One evening, as Fenton Lord sat in the 
 dogger's shop, Asenath, with a woman's tact 
 for turning out the contents of a man's mind, 
 succeeded in drawing the wishes and purposes of 
 the old man into actual expression. 
 
 ' What !' she exclaimed, * thaa doesn'd mean 
 to say thaa wishes that ? Why, thaa'rt wur nor 
 Herod. Thaa'rt seekin' th' young child's life. 
 He were flayed o' his throne, an' thaa'rt flayed 
 o' thi pride ; that's thy kingdom — thi pride — 
 doesto yer ? Durnd thee begin o' play in' wi' th' 
 Almeety. He'll go His own gate for thee or
 
 A Mother's Wail. 247 
 
 onybody else. Tak' thi trouble like a gradely 
 mon, an' stuff thi pride up th' chimbly. Yo' 
 cornd hav' childer baat takin' your chances v/i 
 *em. They're certain care, but uncertain com- 
 forts, and yo' mun sup both th' bitter and th' 
 sweet. A mon's a foo', an' a woman is, for that 
 matter, 'at builds ony hopes on 'em. Thaa's 
 noan read that Bible o' thine to mich use, if 
 that's o' thaa con say an' do naa thaa'rt i' trouble.' 
 
 * If th' child lives, 'Senath, it '11 hav' to goa. 
 Aw'll noan hav' it i' mi haase. So naa thaa 
 knows!' 
 
 ' What's th' child done amiss ^ asked Elijah. 
 
 ' It's not what it's done, 'Lijah, but what it 
 will do.' 
 
 ' Why, haa doesto know what it '11 do ^ 
 Tha'll give it a chonce, surely.'*' 
 
 * Yi ; aw'll give it a chonce ; but not at 
 whom. Aw'll see it's done well by, but aw'll 
 noan hav' it abaat me. Th' world's wide en'ugh 
 for both on us, an' aw'll noan hav' it in my 
 gate.' 
 
 ' Well, Lord, thaa wor awlus a foo' when 
 thaa made up thi mind,' said Elijah. 
 
 ' An' thaa wor awlus a foo* in making it up
 
 248 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 and o',' added the keen-tongued woman, ' But 
 thaa'rt wur nor a foo' this time — thaa's a brute ! 
 Where's th' difference between th' child an' one 
 o' your own?' 
 
 ' Thaa knows th' difference, 'Senath, baat me 
 teUin' yo'.' 
 
 * There's happen a difference to them as skens 
 wi' pride, but i' th' een o' th' Almeety there's no 
 difference at o', so aw tell yo'. A child's a 
 child, howsomever it comes ; an' if it comes to 
 your haase and yo' kick it aat, God '11 send in 
 th' bill for thee to sattle some day. See if He 
 doesn'd.' 
 
 ' O' reight ! aw'se noan ax thee to help me 
 sattle it when it comes.' 
 
 ' Sithee, Lord, thi pride's poisonin' thee !' 
 And so saying, Asenath pushed past him out of 
 the dogger's shop, where the conversation had 
 been held. 
 
 When the men were alone Elijah laid aside 
 the clog on which he had been working, and 
 looking steadily into Lord's face, said : 
 
 ' Thaa doesn't mean what thaa ses, doesto ^ 
 Surely thaa'U never foundlin' yon child?' 
 
 'Yo've yerd o' th' Medes and Persians, 'Lijah?'
 
 A Mother's Wail. 249 
 
 ' Yi ; aw've yerd on *em.' 
 
 ' Well, thaa knows when Fenton Lord male's 
 up his mind, he belongs to th' same breed.' 
 
 'Jackass breed, tha' means — breed as awlus 
 go their own gate. Well, awVe known a few 
 broken necks and sore shins i' that gate i' mi 
 time. Thaa mun mind thaa doesn't tumble, 
 that's o'.' 
 
 Fenton Lord gathered himself together in 
 high dudgeon, and muttering something about 
 ' folk sweepin' their own doorsteps,' walked 
 towards home, strong in his own conclusions 
 and righteous in the wrath he nursed towards 
 the innocent ; proud, too, that he was of the 
 Medes and Persians, that changed not, though 
 all he knew of them was that they were ' i' th' 
 Scripters.' 
 
 Tira's life hung on a thread ; or, as the doctor 
 put it, ' it was a case of touch and go.' She lay, 
 poor girl, unconscious, and consumed with a 
 fever that refused to submit to the allaying hand 
 of science and the tender ministrations of love. 
 A bladder, filled with ice, was suspended from 
 the chamber ceiling, and allowed to rest on her 
 
 32
 
 250 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 burning brow, and morning, noon, and night, 
 her watchful sisters took the temperature that 
 told of the obdurate flame. There were restless 
 tossings and incoherent ravings ; while in in- 
 tervals of lucidity the girl cried out after the 
 little life that had been removed, for the laws 
 of the Medes and Persians were once more 
 irrevocable, and Fenton Lord had carried off 
 the ' chance child,' as he called it, to a home for 
 foundlings. Through those long days and still 
 longer nights no one was oftener at the sick 
 girl's side than Asenath, soothing as best she 
 could with snatches of hymns, and fanning the 
 cheeks no longer aflame with beauty, but with 
 the deadly poison that too often haunts the 
 natal bed. Day after day the girl lived on, her 
 strong constitution doing brave battle with 
 death. Many a time and oft did they think her 
 last breath drawn, and yet she rallied — rallied 
 only to relapse, and put out the flicker of hope 
 she had kindled anew in the anxious hearts of 
 the watchers. 
 
 Of all who waited for the crisis, none waited 
 in such terrible tension as old Lord himself, and 
 many and earnest were his prayers for his child's
 
 A Mother's Wail. 251 
 
 recovery. He had spent whole nights on his 
 knees, only a partition between the room where 
 he knelt and pleaded and the room wherein lay 
 the sick girl. And yet his prayers all seemed 
 in vain ; the child of his heart continued to 
 hover on that side the border line pointing to 
 the grave. 
 
 One night, as Asenath and Ephy, the eldest 
 sister of the sick girl, watched by the bedside, a 
 gleam of consciousness flitted over the patient's 
 face — a gleam only, but Asenath saw it, and 
 with her experience she knew that the hour of 
 crisis was at hand. Keeping her eye fixed on 
 the sufferer, she noted its return, this time 
 brighter and more intelligent, and accompanied 
 by a cry, faint indeed, and almost inarticulate — 
 a cry plaintive and heart-reaching : 
 
 * Asenath, where's mi child ?' 
 
 In Asenath's life of manifold sorrows many 
 v/ere the cries that had pierced her heart. She 
 had heard children — her own children — cry out 
 in suffering, and strong men groan in pain ; but 
 this cry of Tira for her child tortured her as 
 never before, and her whole soul went out in a 
 suppressed sob.
 
 252 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 ' Asenath, where's mi child ?' 
 
 On the other side of the partition she heard 
 the stifled prayers of the father asking for the 
 girl's recovery. Now and again the words were 
 distinct enough to be caught. Then they died 
 down to niutterings — a mere murmur, yet how 
 ominous at this midninrht hour ! 
 
 ' Asenath, where's mi child .?' 
 
 And the girl looked round the bed, and 
 feebly raised the clothes, keenly eyeing the 
 folds, as if to find the little offspring there. But 
 it was all for naught. She looked in vain. 
 
 And still the father prayed, little thinking 
 that an act wrought by his own pride was risk- 
 ing the life for which he sought at the hands of 
 God. 
 
 Asenath never forgot those two voices. They 
 rang in her ears in after-years — rang in the still- 
 nesses of the night as she heard them then ; 
 rang out when she could not sleep — the voice 
 of a daughter whose offspring a father had 
 robbed — the voice of a father who pleaded for 
 the life of the daughter he had wronged. 
 
 A terrible strain was now on Asenath. She 
 knew the girl's life hung on the gratification of
 
 A Mother's Wail. 253 
 
 this her first conscious wish, and she knew how 
 hard it would be to gain its grant. In a 
 moment her mind became a playground of pro- 
 babilities ; and these, with the lightning speed 
 of thought, she balanced. He who was now 
 praying for his child held the answer to his 
 prayer in his own hands. But would he answer 
 that for which he asked ? Faithless prayers were 
 bad enough, but not so bad or hopeless as the 
 prayer of pride. 
 
 * Spare her life^ Lord f 
 
 The words were sobbed out, and sounded 
 through the lath and plaster wall. And the 
 girl's life might be spared, and spared by him 
 who prayed for it. 
 
 ' Asenath, gi' me mi child. Sithee ! aw want 
 it here ;' and the girl bared her bosom, as though 
 to nourish the little life, the advent of which 
 she now recalled in the first luminous stage of 
 her long illness. 
 
 ' Hooisht, lass ! thaa mun keep quiet. Thaa 
 cornd hav' th' child while thaa's so ill, thaa 
 knows. Thaa mun wait till thaar't strong, thaa 
 knows.' 
 
 * Aw mun hav' it naa, Asenath.'
 
 254 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 And the girl rose in bed and put out her 
 long arms, now lean and shapeless as sticks, as if 
 in wild entreaty. * Aw mun hav' it naa.' 
 
 ' But thaa cornd, lass. Th' doctor will'nd let 
 thee, thaa knows. Thaa mun get better first.' 
 
 * Aw'se soon be better wi' th' child, Asenath. 
 Fotch it, doesto yer.'*' 
 
 The girl was becoming frantic in her gesti- 
 culation and wild in her excitement, her un- 
 natural strength threatening a relapse, which 
 Asenath saw approaching. So laying the girl 
 back on her pillow, she said : 
 
 * Naa, Tira, thaa mun hush thee an' be quiet, 
 an' aw'll go for th' child.' 
 
 ' Spare her life. Lord P 
 
 Once more the words were sobbed out, and 
 sounded in muffled tones through the wall from 
 the adjoining room, and as she again heard them 
 Asenath took on herself a mighty resolve. 
 
 Leaving the sick girl on pretence of fetching 
 the child, Asenath gently opened the chamber- 
 door, and saw before her the bent form of the 
 old man as he bowed over the bed. 
 
 For a moment she paused, and the words fell 
 on her ears — words piteous, yet, as her instinct
 
 A Mother's Wail. 255 
 
 told her, still words of pride. There was one 
 who wanted his own way in two directions, and 
 God was offering him his choice of one only. 
 He could keep his daughter if he chose to 
 restore her child. He could keep his pride, but 
 at the cost of his daughter. Asenath saw it all, 
 and with a woman's instinct prepared herself for 
 her task. 
 
 Going up to the bent figure, she touched him 
 and said : 
 
 ' Lord, aw want thee. Durnd mak' a noise, 
 but come wi' me daan into th' kitchen.' 
 
 ' Hoo's not dead, is hoo.^' gasped the old man. 
 * Nowe ; hoo's not dead ; but there's nobry 
 but thee con keep her alive.' 
 ' What doesto mean, Asenath ^ 
 ' Come along wi' me, an' aw'll tell thee ;' and 
 so saying, she led the self-willed man, like a 
 lamb, down the stone stairway into the room 
 below. 
 
 ' Fenton Lord,' she said, after seating him in 
 the chair by the now fireless grate — * Fenton 
 Lord, supposin' th' Almeety laft it wi' thee to 
 answer thi own prayer for Tira, what would ta 
 do.?'
 
 256 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 * What would aw do, sesto?' 
 
 ' Yi ; and mind haa thaa answers.' 
 
 'Why, aw'd do aught.' 
 
 'Then tell me where thaa's sent th' babby 
 to.' 
 
 It required some little time before the old 
 man, with his sluggish mind, grasped the full 
 meaning of Asenath's words ; but when he 
 did, he rose in his wrath and pushed the woman 
 from him, saying : 
 
 ' Durnd come thi fause ways o'er me. That 
 child o' sin '11 never cross mi' threshold !' 
 
 ' O' reight ; then Tira will, an' feet fermost 
 an' o' ; an' noan so long first, noather — that's 
 all. Naa thaa con go on wi' thi pray in', an th' 
 Almeety '11 laugh at thee. He's gien thee thi 
 chance, an' thaa willn'd tak' it.' And Asenath 
 went back to the sick-room. 
 
 ' Hasto brought th' child ^' asked Tira, as 
 soon as the woman entered. 
 
 ' Not yet, lass. Ephy here mun run for th' 
 doctor. Happen he'll let thee hav' it ; we mun 
 ax him first. Run off, Ephy, as fast as thaa con 
 an fotch him. And naa, Tira, thaa mun sleep 
 a bit, thaa knows, an' get strong enugh to look
 
 A Mother's Wail 257 
 
 at till child.' And so saying, she soothed as 
 best she could the restless and expectant girl. 
 
 Meanwhile the old man was pondering the 
 words of Asenath. Slowly his dull brain turned 
 them over and over, and sought to draw out of 
 them their meaning. He had called her ' fause ' 
 (cunning, sly) ; but was she.^* Was she not 
 one who always carried a meaning in her words 
 that was sincere.'^ And yet, how could the 
 return of a babe save the life of his girl } Had 
 she not a doctor and medicine ? Was he not 
 praying for her? If these failed, what else 
 could succeed.'* Women, he knew, were fanci- 
 ful. Yes, and after all, women were false. 
 Was he being tricked.'' was it all a plant — a 
 ruse — to master by wile his determined will .'' 
 There was no depth to woman's scheming. 
 He would show them that in vain the net was 
 set for his feet. No one in the village besides 
 himself knew the whereabouts of the child, and 
 no one should. 
 
 And so, sheathing in his pride his few re- 
 maining qualms of heart, he clambered once 
 more to his chamber to beseech the Almighty 
 to save his daughter, 
 
 33
 
 258 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 Asenath continued to soothe the girl as best 
 she could, bidding her wait the doctor's arrival, 
 and promising her the babe for her arms when 
 she was strong enough to hold it, all the while 
 catching the muttered words from the adjoining 
 room : 
 
 ' Spare her life, Lord /' 
 
 Suddenly there was a shriek — a loud, piteous 
 shriek — louder far than the old man's prayers, 
 and more importunate, not only startling him, 
 but rending the air of night and travelling far 
 along the village street. It was the shriek of 
 robbed maternity coming from a heart rudely 
 emptied of its treasure ; the cry of one who 
 for the first time realized that its nest had been 
 left unto it desolate ; a half-life going out in 
 passionate entreaty after the other half, lost 
 somewhere in an unsearchable void. The old 
 man heard it, and ceased his prayers. The 
 doctor, too, as he hurried up the stairs, heard 
 it, and knew its import. It was a mother's 
 prayer for the restoration of what the world 
 called her ' chance child/ 
 
 When silence once more settled on the house, 
 the old man stole in his stockinged feet to the
 
 A Mother's Wail. 259 
 
 sick girl's door, that stood ajar, and as he did 
 
 so he heard the doctor say : 
 
 ' Give her back her child, and she'll live.' 
 But the child was far away, and only one in 
 
 that house knew its whereabouts.
 
 III. 
 
 LIFE AND DEATH. 
 
 There was the sound of importunate beating 
 on the door of the public-house, the sound of 
 a hand in eager haste. 
 
 The lights had been out for upwards of an 
 hour, and the sleepy landlord, no longer dis- 
 turbed by his customers' hilarity, slept soundly, 
 his good wife by his side, both unconscious of 
 the storm of blows rained on the door of their 
 hostel. 
 
 Louder and yet louder rang the summons, 
 still falling on obdurate ears. Then the knock- 
 ing was accompanied by a voice, vociferous and 
 imperative in its tone — a voice that at last 
 reached the dull senses of the sleeping pair. 
 
 'What's that, lass?' asked the landlord, 
 breaking short in one of his snores.
 
 Life and Death. 261 
 
 'Some drunken chap as wants sarving after 
 haars. Plague tak' his dry throttle! Why 
 cornd he go quietly whom?' 
 
 ' Nay, it's no drunken chap,' said the now 
 awakened man. ' Aw like as though aw know 
 that voice. Hooisht ! It's Fenton Lord's, or 
 aw'm mistaan.' 
 
 ' What mun Fenton Lord want wi' us ? 
 Thaa knows he's a teetotal. An if he wurnd, 
 he'd noan be after drink at this time o' neet 
 an o'. Aw tell thee, it's some drunken foo' as 
 ought to be awhom i' bed, as we are.' 
 
 *Are yo' baan to oppen this dur? Aw'll 
 punce it in if yo' durnd, so naa!' And the 
 speaker's foot came into lively contact with the 
 resisting woodwork. 
 
 ' Thaa's reight, lad : yon's Fenton Lord, an' 
 no mistak'. What i' th' name o' fortin's brought 
 him here at this time o' th' neet ? Put thi yed 
 aat o' th' winder an' ax him. There's summat 
 up to fotch him at this haar.' 
 
 The landlord tumbled on the floor, none too 
 pleased at the summons, and opening the lattice, 
 cried : 
 
 «Well, whatis't.?'
 
 262 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 'Is that thee, David?' 
 
 ' It wor when aw went to bed.' 
 
 ' Aw want thee to put thi mare i* th' trap 
 an' drive me to Bruntleigh — an' look slippy 
 abaat it an' o' !' 
 
 ' What ses to ?' cried the landlord, doubting 
 his ears. 
 
 ' Put th' mare i' th' shafts an' drive me to 
 Bruntleigh. Arto a foo' }' 
 
 ' Nowe, but aw think thaa art !* 
 
 ' Look thee here, Dave, noan o' thi marlocks. 
 It's a life and death job — an' there's brass at th' 
 end on't an' o'.' 
 
 'Does he say there's brass at th' end on't?' 
 asked the woman, who sat up in bed, with ears 
 alert. 
 
 * Yi,' said David, turning round from the 
 window to answer his wife. 
 
 ' Then don thi cloathes an' be off wi' thee, for 
 there's noan too mich stirrin' naa-a-days.' 
 
 When the landlord reached the door and 
 opened it, Fenton Lord rushed in, followed by 
 a shawled woman, whom David at once saw to 
 be Asenath. 
 
 *What th' ferrups is up? Thee an o*.
 
 Life and Death. 263 
 
 Asenath !' exclaimed David. ' Has th' world 
 come to an end, or summat?' 
 
 ' Ax no questions, lad,' said the woman in 
 that cold, calm voice that always levied obedi- 
 ence. ' Do as thaa'rt towd, an' see thaa doesn'd 
 let th' grass grow under thi feet. Thaa'lt be 
 paid for o' thaa does, as Lord's tell'd thee. 
 We're noan baat brass.' 
 
 ' Yo' want th' mare puttin' i' th' trap, yo' say, 
 and drivin' o'er to Bruntleigh ? Why, it's ten 
 mile or more.' 
 
 ' Never thee mind if it's ten hundred ; do as 
 thaa'rt towd, an' durnd be long abaat it,' said 
 the woman. And David turned to obey. 
 
 Although he was but a {qw minutes in his 
 preparation, to the waiters the time appeared 
 interminable. They thought his boots long in 
 the lacing and his hat in the finding. Then it 
 was as though the harness would never fit the 
 mare, or the mare back into the shafts. Every 
 strap and buckle seemed as though it were 
 stupid, resisting where it ought to have slipped 
 into its place. When all was in order, and in 
 readiness as they supposed for the start, the 
 whip was missing, and the landlord returned to
 
 264 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 search for it in the house. At last they drove 
 off, and, despite the spanking speed at which 
 they started, Fenton Lord cried out at what he 
 deemed the slowness of the pace. 
 
 ' Gi'e me howd o* that whip,* said he ; and, 
 snatching it out of the hands of David, he laid 
 it round the ears of the mare, forcing her into a 
 wild gallop. 
 
 ' Luk here, owd lad, if thaa con poo' a warp, 
 it doesn'd say as thaa con drive a horse. Hoo's 
 going ten mile an haar, an' if that doesn'd suit 
 thee, thaa con get aat an' walk — so naa.' 
 
 ' Ten mile an haar ! an' we're ten mile fro' 
 Bruntleigh. That means death, Asenath ; for 
 sure it does !' said Lord. 
 
 ' It does to th' mare — choose haa,' replied 
 David. ' An' to thee an* me if th* trap goes 
 o'er.' 
 
 ' We's be like to bide aar time, lad,' advised 
 the woman. ' Thaa's run Him as is aboon a bit 
 too close this time, but happen He'll show His 
 mercy at after all.* 
 
 ' What are yo' two talkin' abaat ? Aw'm 
 noan takin' one o' yo' to th' 'sylum, am aw.? 
 Aw'm baan to turn back if aw am. Yo're noan
 
 Life and Death. 26^ 
 
 baan to get me into ony plaguy mess, aw con 
 tell yo'.' And so saying, he reined up the 
 mare. 
 
 ' Drive on, David, or aw'll pitch thee aat an' 
 drive misel' ;* and, laying his hand on David's 
 collar, Fenton Lord gave it a threatening shake 
 of unmistakable meaning. 
 
 It was a midsummer night, clear and cool 
 with freshest air. The stars were in glorious 
 evidence, and dim outlines told where the 
 mighty hills were sleeping. Around lay a 
 country dotted with scattered farms and patches 
 of forest, showing black on the dull stretch of 
 landscape. The road along which they travelled 
 was skirted on each side by walls of rudely- 
 built stone, moss-grown and fern niched, bent 
 and twisted with many a winter's storm. Here 
 and there a lone house was passed, the clatter of 
 the mare's feet awakening the slumbering dogs, 
 which, with short, sharp bark, welcomed and 
 farewelled the speeding journeyers. In a half- 
 hour the moors were reached, where all was 
 void and silence — great stretches of wild 
 herbage, in the daytime crossed by the chasing 
 cloud shadows, and at night seen by the stars. 
 
 34
 
 266 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 The long grasses, as they waved in the night 
 v/lnd, seemed to start and raise their spiraled 
 blades at the sound of the sharp click of the 
 horse's footfall, while its distant echo disturbed 
 the wild-fowl in their heathery haunts. There 
 was a hush in the heavens, and on the earth the 
 listening ear, while the travellers were mute, 
 the one with wonder, the other two with sus- 
 pense and fear. 
 
 Click, click, went the mare's feet in quick 
 time and sharp tattoo, needing neither whip nor 
 word to keep the pace, David holding a steady 
 rein, and Fenton Lord ejaculating shreds of 
 piteous prayer, while Asenath, with her eye on 
 the heavenly watchers, wondered in which 
 mansion of light her little Samuel was looking 
 down on the sorrow-throbbing earth. 
 
 Click, click ! How monotonous the hoof- 
 beats grew ! As the minutes passed Fenton 
 Lord began to hear them in his brain, and then 
 it seemed as though his poor aching head were 
 under the horse's feet, and that the sharp ring of 
 the iron shoes was beating mercilessly upon him. 
 
 Click, chck, answered the echoes. From 
 distant mounds it was carried back again to the
 
 Life and Death. 267 
 
 travellers, and the air caught it and played 
 with it, and sent it far over the moorlands, 
 where it died away on the rush-fringed water- 
 beds and amid the wastes of ferns. 
 
 Now it would keep time to a familiar air, or 
 beat out monotonous threnodies in the minds of 
 those whom it haunted ; or it would speak as 
 the hollow voice of Fate, and proclaim its 
 message of despair. And then it would tell of 
 the passing moments — moments on which life 
 hung — moments that perchance beat out the 
 life of suffering, and told how one pulse less had 
 fallen with the falling hoof To Fenton Lord 
 on that night it sounded more than once as the 
 clock-beat of fate. 
 
 But time and the hour run through the 
 longest night, and end the wearisomest of 
 journeys. As the dawn lit the eastern sky the 
 tall chimneys of Bruntleigh v/ere dimly seen, 
 and Lord and Asenath thanked God that at 
 last one half of the suspense was done with. 
 
 * That's th' haase,' said Lord — ' that on th' 
 top o' th' broo (hill) there. Drive up to't, 
 David.' And David turned the horse's head in 
 the direction indicated.
 
 268 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 It was a low, gray-stone house, dilapidated 
 and lonesome, built in by high fences, over 
 which hung the leafless branches of trees long 
 since dead. It stood in a zone of desolation, 
 and was ever chilled by its own shadow, or the 
 shadow cast by the enclosing walls. No flowers 
 grew in its garden ; even the plots of grass were 
 mildewed and bare. Lying out of the beaten 
 track, there were few who visited it, and the 
 few who did sought secrecy in their call. 
 During the day the voices of children haunted 
 its precincts — sometimes joyous voices, but 
 oftener voices of pain and weariness. Here, 
 from time to time, under shadow of night, little 
 babies were left — left in secret to save a family's 
 pride, left with those whose only end was to 
 gain a selfish livelihood. Those amongst them 
 who lived went out into the world in after- 
 years knowing not who they were, and those 
 who died lay with no stone to mark their grave. 
 
 ' Drive round to th' back, David,* said Lord. 
 
 They drove round to where a door opened 
 from the fence wall into the garden. All was 
 hushed, however — the little ones and their 
 keeper were asleep.
 
 Life and Death. 269 
 
 In another moment Lord was knocking at 
 the door as two hours before he had knocked 
 at the door of David's hotel ; but his blows 
 were more timorous, and marked by nervous 
 haste. 
 
 A great hound warned him by its savage 
 bark — a hound with which the children sported 
 in their hours of play, their only friend on these 
 lonesome heights. 
 
 As the knocking became louder the hound 
 became more fierce, until at last a woman's face 
 was thrust in fear out of an upper window, 
 startled and pale with the early and ruthless 
 summons. 
 
 It was a hard, passionless face, set off with 
 close-drawn hair of iron gray. The mouth was 
 large and gap-toothed, and the voice set in a 
 key whose harshness smote the ear of the 
 motherly Asenath. 
 
 ' Have yo' brought summat?' she asked. 
 
 * No,' said Asenath ; ' we've come for sum- 
 mat — for that baby-boy yo' geet a two-thre 
 weeks sin' fro Heatherlow.' 
 
 ' What dun yo' want wi' him ? Th' child's 
 reight enugh !'
 
 270 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 * That's none o' yore bis'ness. Let me hav 
 th' child.' 
 
 * Yo' con hav' th' child if yo've getten th' 
 papers an' th' brass.' 
 
 ' We've getten both, lass. Let's hav' th' child ! 
 Time's precious!' cried Lord in impatient tones. 
 
 ' O' reight ; aw'll be daan in a minute.' 
 
 When the woman came down she admitted 
 Fenton Lord and Asenath into the kitchen — a 
 huge, desolate room, with whitewashed walls, 
 its floor strewn with broken furniture, amongst 
 which were sundry cradles and children's chairs. 
 On the dresser stood a number of unwashed 
 mugs and feeders, a basin half filled with milk, 
 and a pot of soothing mixture for restless and 
 pain-smitten infancy. A sour odour hung in 
 the air — an odour of filth and unv/ashed flesh, 
 sickening to the smell ; and the floor was 
 stained and slippery. 
 
 When the woman had looked at the papers 
 presented by Lord, and taken his money, she 
 went aloft for the chilJ. Then Asenath turned 
 on him, and said : 
 
 ' So this is th' hoile wheer yo' sent th' little 
 un, is it .f*'
 
 Life and Death. 271 
 
 Lord groaned, and said : 
 
 ' Durnd, Asenath.' 
 
 ' Yo' may weel say " durnd." Aw couldn't 
 lia' thought it o' yo', Fenton. An' wi' all yore 
 prayin' an' o'. Why, aw wouldn't send a 
 kittlin' to sich a shop as this. Thaa deserves 
 thi yers (ears) pooin' as long as shoe-tees (ties) !' 
 
 * Aw do, Asenath, an' yo' con poo' 'em if yo' 
 like,' blubbered Lord. 
 
 ' Nay ; aw've summat else to do. Aw'm ill 
 off for yon lass o' thine. Aw'm feard hoo's 
 dead by this.' 
 
 * Durnd say that, Asenath. Tell th' owd 
 woman to be quick.' 
 
 But the old woman was as anxious to be 
 quick as they were, and in a few minutes she 
 returned with the baby in her arms. 
 
 ' Hav' yo' brought aught to lap it in .'" 
 
 ' Yi. Sithee, here's a shawl. Thaa mut 
 v/arm it a sup o' milk afoore we go,' said Ase- 
 nath. And the food was warmed over a paraffin 
 stove. 
 
 Then commenced the homeward journey of 
 David, Lord, and Asenath, the latter with the 
 little one near her warm, motherly bosom.
 
 272 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 Heatherlow was yet asleep when they reached 
 the house of Fenton Lord, in the doorway of 
 which stood one of the ' Seven stars ' awaiting 
 the return. 
 
 Leaping from the cart, Lord cried ; 
 
 ' Is hoo hvin' ?' 
 
 His daughter nodded, and her father cried 
 out, ' Thank God !' and then burst into tears. 
 
 Then it was the calm common-sense of Ase- 
 nath asserted itself. Quietly she stepped out of 
 the cart with her precious burden, and, seating 
 herself in the kitchen, unshawled the babe, 
 thankful to find it asleep. 
 
 There it lay, with heaven's innocence on its 
 restful face. 
 
 'Poor little un ! thaa's done naught wrang. 
 Llim as took childer on His knees would never 
 ha* turned thee away fro' whom. Nowe ; He 
 would ha' blessed thee, choose what thi mother 
 had done. It's a weary world when such like 
 as thee has to suffer for other folks' sin. But 
 Him aboon knows all abaat thee. He's thi 
 Faither, whoever else is. But thaa's getten a 
 mother, thank God! an' hoo loves thee.' 
 
 And then, rising to her feet, she climbed the
 
 Life and Death. 273 
 
 stairs to Tira's chamber, and, placing the child 
 in the girl's arms, she said to the watching 
 sisters : 
 
 * Naa then, lasses, let's leave 'em alone a bit ; 
 they'll be better by theirsel's.' 
 
 For many a day Tira's life was despaired of, 
 the cruel strain and shock almost doing their 
 fatal work. But a strong constitution and 
 Asenath's care conquered death, and as the 
 autumn drew on, the scales turned in the girl's 
 favour. There were weary hours when she 
 wished herself dead, days in which she cursed 
 her folly, and found no ease from the hell of 
 her shame. But Asenath ministered to the 
 mind diseased ; nor was there sentiment in her 
 ministration. Her puritanism was too stern for 
 that ; no half-lights glimmered in her morality. 
 She would sit with her Bible on her knee and 
 tell how the God of the Hebrews fortified the 
 sacredness of home. And then, as despair 
 wrung the girl's heart, she would read of one 
 who loved much because she had been much 
 forgiven. And as Tira saw a gleam of hope her 
 pulse began to beat with healthy life. 
 
 3S
 
 274 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 But the flower of her life was gone, and she 
 trod a shadowed path. There was One, how- 
 ever, who in His exacting penalties did not 
 forget to be gracious. And as the years passed, 
 and time told its tale on her once beautiful face, 
 the heart found ease in her child. 
 
 Tira still lives a quiet, lonesome life on her 
 native wilds. Her son lives, too, his name well 
 known to many a northern church. 
 
 Not long ago old Fenton Lord was laid to 
 rest in the little chapel-yard among his forbears, 
 and his last words were those of gratitude that 
 he buried his pride ' i' th' place o' berryin' 
 Tira.'
 
 ENOS TAKES HIS FIRST AND LAST 
 CARRIAGE DRIVE.
 
 ENOS TAKES HIS FIRST AND LAST 
 CARRIAGE DRIVE. 
 
 Enos was one of the few men in Heatherlow 
 without enemies. He sometimes would say, as 
 he talked with the saints at the chapel on the 
 hill, that he ' were ill off when he thought o' 
 th' Maister's words, " Woe unto yo' when all 
 men speak well o' yo','' ' and confessed, in his 
 simplicity, that he'd ' feel more reight if a two- 
 thre folk would set on an' throw stones at 
 him.' But no hand was raised against Enos. 
 All trusted him, and as many as possessed 
 hearts loved him. 
 
 When he was too old to work, he still hung 
 round the factory yard and spent many hours in 
 the warehouse, proud of his lifelong connection 
 with the firm. He had seen three generations 
 of masters. He used to tell how he came as a
 
 278 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 lad ' wi' th' owd maister fro' Bruntleigh, when 
 they sold a calf to buy a two-thre warps wi',' 
 while his memory stored every incident in the 
 building up and prosperity of the firm. He 
 was one of the last of a race of servants 
 who claimed no rights. His religion held two 
 spheres — the chapel and the factory ; and his 
 two authorities were * Him up aboon' and ' th' 
 maister.' By these he swore — they were his 
 lords. 
 
 When the * owd maister ' retired from the 
 firm, Enos took it sorely to heart. To use his 
 own expression, ' he wor off his meat ' for 
 months. For a little while all interest in his 
 labour failed, for the old spot was haunted by 
 an absence. Then came a fire, and the mill was 
 gutted. This was the great trial of his life, and 
 it was years before he overcame the loss. He 
 had been wont to walk round the old factory on 
 summer evenings, looking up at its gray stories 
 and iron-framed windows, counting its stones 
 and reviewing its history. Indeed, if it had not 
 been for his religion, he would have been incor- 
 porate into it — but Zion on the hill divided 
 the claims. Nothing so suited him as to recall
 
 Enos takes a Carriage Drive 279 
 
 some little incident in the past, either of the 
 mill or its masters, and recount it to listening 
 ears. 
 
 When wages went up, Enos refused the rise ; 
 and when the firm insisted he should be paid as 
 other men, he persistently refunded what he 
 deemed to be excess in his new rate of pay- 
 ment. 
 
 One summer's afternoon, as the newly- 
 married wife of the youngest master was look- 
 ing through the window of her husband's office, 
 old Enos passed, and, glancing up, raised his 
 cap in respect to her presence. 
 
 ' Who is this old man, Frank } Be quick — 
 he is going 1' 
 
 Mr. Frank at once sprang to his feet in 
 time to see Enos pass under the warehouse 
 door. 
 
 ' Oh, that,' said he, * is old Enos, whom you 
 have heard us speak of so often.' 
 
 * Oh, is that Enos ? I want to see him, 
 Frank. I must have him up at our house. He 
 shall drive home with me this afternoon.' 
 
 ' Catch him at it !' said Frank. ' He might 
 perhaps walk up, if he were strong enough ;
 
 28o The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 we should have to send him on an errand, 
 however. As to getting him into a carriage — 
 the idea is out of the question. He never was 
 in one in his life.' 
 
 ' He'll drive in one to-day,' said Mrs. Frank, 
 with a significant nod of her head. * Send for 
 him, Frank. I want to see him so much.' 
 
 Enos was sent for, and in due time appeared. 
 He had been a tall man, but was now bent with 
 years. His face was lit up with a benignant 
 light, and his long white hair covered by a 
 closely-fitting cap. The fustian jacket which 
 he wore showed many a neatly-wrought patch, 
 and his trousers shone with grease and long 
 hours of factory toil. He was shod with clogs 
 — the great heavy wooden-soled shoes so much 
 in vogue among the operatives. 
 
 'Did yo' want me, Maister Frank.'" said the 
 old man, as he stood at the doorway of the 
 inner office. 
 
 * Yes. Come in, Enos. I want to introduce 
 you to my wife.* 
 
 ' Well, hoo's a bonny un, an' no mistak'. But 
 yo' awlus knew a pratty lass, Mr. Frank, when 
 yo' seed one.'
 
 Eno takes a Carriage Drive 281 
 
 ' What does he say, Frank ?' asked the 
 young wife, ignorant of the vernacular. 
 
 ' Oh, nothing, my dear. He says you are 
 pretty, you know ' — this with some confusion. 
 
 ' Thank you, Enos,' said the frank little 
 woman — ' thank you for the compliment. I 
 know you mean it. But does not my husband 
 deserve a pretty wife — eh ?' 
 
 ' Yi. God bless him ! he does, an' o'. He's 
 reight for royalty, is Maister Frank.' 
 
 'Well, Enos, I've secured my queen.' 
 
 ' An' hoo's a gradely un, an' o',' said Enos ; 
 and he stood looking hard at the beauties of 
 the girl-wife. And then, as if jealous of the 
 old family, Enos continued : 
 
 ' But hoo's no better nor yore mother wor 
 when hoo wor a lass, Maister Frank. Aw re- 
 member when yore faither brought her to 
 Heatherlow forty years sin ; there were no een 
 like hers on th' country-side, nor i' th' caanty 
 noather ; an' her yure were like a raven's, 
 Maister Frank, it wor. Yore mother '11 take 
 some beatin' — as hoo wor when hoo wor a girl, 
 aw mean, yo' know.' 
 
 * Yes, Enos. I understand.' 
 
 36
 
 282 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 ' Hoo's nobbud a young un, and hoo's nobbud 
 a little un,' continued Enos, never taking his 
 eyes off the girh 
 
 ' What's that, Frank ?' 
 
 ' He says you are only young, and only 
 small,* 
 
 ' But hoo does credit to th' family,' continued 
 Enos, as though to correct or tone down his 
 criticism. 
 
 ' That's right, Enos. I'm glad you commend 
 my choice. But my wife wants you to go home 
 with her in the carriage. It's waiting at the 
 office door now — see !' 
 
 ' What !' exclaimed Enos, letting his cap fall 
 on the floor in his confusion. 
 
 ' Mrs. Frank wants you to go home with her 
 in the carriage.' 
 
 ' Nowe, Maister Frank, aw couldn't for shame. 
 Aw'm noan fit to ride with th' likes of yo' an' 
 yore misses.' 
 
 * Nonsense, Enos ; we're all of one blood — 
 money doesn't make the man. Come along.' 
 And he pushed the old man towards the door. 
 
 * There's a deal o'er mony o' yore way o' 
 thinkin', Maister Frank — leastways, abaat this
 
 Enos takes a Carnage Drive. 283 
 
 place there is. Jack's as good as his maister 
 naa-a-days. When aw wor a lad both Jack 
 an' his maister knev/ their places, and kep' 'em.' 
 
 ' That's all very well, Enos, for yesterday. 
 But we are radicals now.' 
 
 ' Yi ; and yore radicals '11 blow yo' into 
 jamrags (ruins or shreds of anything).' 
 
 ' Go on, you old Jeremiah — go on, and get 
 into the carriage, and drive home v/ith my wife.' 
 And so saying, the young master pushed the old 
 servant towards the door. 
 
 ' Nowe, Maister Frank, aw willn'd go. Aw 
 wouldn't ha' done it by yore faither, an' aw 
 willn'd do it by yo'.' 
 
 ' Now, Enos,' said the resistless little wife, 
 looking up with all the winsomeness of her 
 girlish face into the rheumy eyes of the old 
 man — ' now, Enos, you cannot refuse me,' And 
 she laid her little, tightly-gloved hand on the 
 greasy coat-sleeve of the faithful servant, and 
 drew him towards the waiting carriage. 
 
 ' Maister Frank, yo've getten a maister at 
 last, aw con tell yo', an' no mistak'. But aw'm 
 noan goin' i' th' carriage for o' that.' 
 
 'What!' said Mrs. Frank, still looking into
 
 284 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 the simple dignity of the old man's face — ' what ! 
 will you say " No " to me ?' 
 
 'Aw feel bun to.' 
 
 ' What, Enos ! when it's your master's 
 orders ?' 
 
 ' But hoo's noan mi maister. If yo' gave th' 
 order, it 'ud be different thaa sees. Aw never 
 disobeyed one o' th' gaffers o' this shop i' mi 
 life, an' aw've worked here, man an' boy, for 
 fifty year.' 
 
 ' Then it's my order that you drive home 
 with my wife in the carriage,' said Mr. Frank 
 in mock authority ; and the old man stepped 
 into the brougham. 
 
 They had not driven far before old Enos 
 turned to the laughing girl at whose side he 
 sat, and said : 
 
 'Aw'll tell yo' what, Mrs. Frank — aw'd 
 rayther be i' th' hot well o' yon engine-haase 
 nor i' this machine.' 
 
 Poor Enos ! he knew not how to place his 
 legs ; for once in his life they were too long for 
 him. Nor dare he move lest he should spoil 
 the finery of the little lady at whose side he sat. 
 Lean back he would not, for he was afraid of the
 
 Enos takes a Carriage Drive. 285 
 
 cushions, while the gentle spring of the carriage 
 was a torture to his old bones. 
 
 ' Aw ax yore pardon,' said Enos, as the 
 brougham gave a slight lurch and rolled him 
 over on the shoulder of the young wife — ' aw 
 ax yore pardon, but aw cornd help it.' 
 
 ' Oh, never mind me, Enos. We shall be at 
 home soon.* 
 
 ' An' what dun yo' want wi' me when yo' get 
 me there?' 
 
 ' Oh, I don't know. I want you to drink my 
 health.' 
 
 ' Do yo' mean sup wine.^' 
 
 * Yes; in honour of our wedding, you know.' 
 ' But aw'm a Rechabite.' 
 
 ' What is that, Enos .?' 
 
 * A watter drinker, yo' know.' 
 
 ' Oh yes, I know. A teetotaller, you mean.' 
 
 ' Yo' han it naa.' 
 
 *WelI, we can manage that, I think. I have 
 some French water that is very good.* 
 
 ' Aw never tasted French watter, Mrs. 
 Frank. Is it aught like th' watter at v/hom?' 
 
 ' A little sweeter, and it sparkles more — 
 that's all.'
 
 286 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 ' Well, if it's watter, aw durnd mind drinking 
 yore and Maister Frank's ealth ; but it mun be 
 watter, yo' know.' 
 
 In a little while the carriage drew up at the 
 door of the Hall, and old Enos, in a cold per- 
 spiration, was glad to once more feel his feet. 
 He was, however, on the threshold of his 
 troubles ; for if the cushioned brougham over- 
 awed him, much more did the highly-furnished 
 drawing-room into which he was ushered. 
 
 ' Aw'm noan baan i' theer,' said he to the 
 servant who opened the door — ' leastways, not i' 
 these clogs ;' and seating himself in the hall, he 
 took off his wooden shoon, and stood up in his 
 stockings to enter the sacred room. No sooner 
 was he in, however, than he shrank back from 
 the splendour that met his gaze. 
 
 ' Where mun aw sit?' said he. 
 
 ' Oh, sit here,' said Mrs. Frank, pointing to 
 a chair. 
 
 * Nay ; aw'se break that ; it v/or noan shapped 
 for th' loike o' me, that wernd. Aw think aw'se 
 Stan . 
 
 ' Well, then, come into the dining-room,' said 
 she. ' There are stronf^er chairs there.' And
 
 Enos takes a Carriage Drive. 287 
 
 so saying, she took the old man across the hall 
 to where she knew he would be more at home. 
 
 ' Well aw never !' exclaimed Enos, as he 
 stood before a full-length portrait in oils — 
 ' well, aw never, if that isn't th' owd maister 
 hissel'.' And tears started to his eyes. ' Aw 
 could fain think he wor alive. That's just as 
 he awlus stood i' th' office if he wor sayin' 
 aught to ony o' 'em at had done aught wrang. 
 He'd a wicked een, th' ov/d mon had, but it 
 were awlus full o' kindness. Aw wish that 
 maath o' thine could shap' a word or two — aw 
 could fain like to yer thee speak agen, if it wor 
 nobbud to swear. It's mony a year sin' aw 
 yerd thee. An' there's th' ow^d lady ! Aw tell 
 yo' what, Mrs. Frank, yo're a pratty un, but 
 aw could a' liked yo' to seen those een when 
 hoo first come to Heatherlow. Maister Frank 
 favours her, but he's noan as gradely lookin' as 
 his mother wor when hoo wor a lass.' And 
 the old man's memory wandered in the family's 
 past. 
 
 Meanwhile the servants, under the orders of 
 
 their mistress, had uncorked a bottle of French 
 
 intage, and poured its sparkling contents into
 
 288 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 a jug, to be fetched in under disguise, so that 
 Enos might drink Mrs. Frank's health in 
 French water without any outrage to his 
 Rechabite principles. This was brought into 
 the dining-room, the lady herself, with mischief 
 in her eye, pouring him out a glass and bidding 
 him drink. 
 
 The old man raised the glass, and, looking at 
 it, said : 
 
 ' It's noan o' th' same colour as aar watter i' 
 this country ; it's yaller like, an' it's fussin' an' 
 o'. It's o' reight, is it, Mrs. Frank ?' 
 
 ' Yes, it's all right, Enos. Come, now, drink 
 my health.' 
 
 ' Well, here's to yo' an' Maister Frank, an' 
 to little Maister Frank, if th' Almeety 'ill be 
 pleased to send yo' one.' And, raising the glass 
 to his lips, the old man drank the contents. 
 ' It's rare and good,' said he, smacking his lips. 
 ' Aw could like to live i' France if they drink 
 watter like that. Aar owd spring's naught to 
 it. So that's French watter, is it ? Aw think 
 aw'll hav another soup, and drink yore health 
 o'er agen.' 
 
 But Mrs. Frank began to be alarmed at the
 
 Enos takes a Carriage Drive. 289 
 
 joke she had thoughtlessly played, and told 
 Enos that as he was not a Frenchman it might 
 make him ill if he drank any more French 
 water, asking him to have some tea with the 
 servants in the kitchen, which invitation the 
 old man willingly accepted. 
 
 * 'Lijah,' said Enos that night as the faithful 
 few were coming away from the prayer-meeting 
 at the chapel on the hill — ' 'Lijah, young 
 Maister Frank has getten a sarvice pipe laid on 
 to th' Hall fro' France.' 
 
 ' Getten a what ?' 
 
 * A sarvice pipe laid on to th' Hall fro' 
 France.' 
 
 * He wor awlus a good hond at spendin' 
 brass, but aw never thought he were sich 
 a foo' as thaa mak's him aat to be. Arto 
 sure V 
 
 ' Sure ! Yi ; aw supped on it this afternoon, 
 an' some good it were an' o'. Bless thee, mon, 
 aw felt twenty year younger for't.* 
 
 ' Supped o' what ^' 
 
 ' Why, o' French watter, forshure.' 
 
 ' An' what were it like ?' asked Elijah. 
 
 37
 
 290 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 ' Why, it wor noan th' same colour as aar 
 spring watter is — an' it did a deal o' fussin'.' 
 
 'An' thaa liked it, thaa sez?' 
 
 ' Yi ; it were gradely good, aw con tell 
 thee.' 
 
 * An' thaa sez thaa felt better for't ? Leet i* 
 thi yed, aw'll be bun'.' 
 
 ' Nowe ! noan leet i' mi yed. Aw were never 
 leet i* mi yed i' mi life. Aw'Jl tell thaa what, 
 'Lijah, hoo's a lady, whatever else hoo is. Hoo 
 mad' me hav' tea i' th' kitchen afoore aw come 
 away. Maister Frank awlus knew a pratty 
 face when he seed one.' 
 
 ' Let's hope he'll be happy wi' th' one he's 
 getten.' 
 
 ' Naa, 'Lijah, aw'm noan baan to hav' a word 
 said agen ony o' mi maisters. They've done 
 reight by me, an' aw'se see 'at reight's done by 
 them, choose-haa. So naa thaa knows. Aw 
 durnd know ha' it is, but naa-a-days a chap 
 cornd mak' a bit o' brass baat makin' enemies.' 
 
 * Thaa sees, Enos, money's th' root o' all evil.' 
 
 * But thaa tak's good care, 'Lijah, to geet as 
 mich as thaa con.' 
 
 * Happen aw do, Enos. It's a queer world.'
 
 Enos takes a Carriage Drive. 291 
 
 * Th' world's reight enugh ; it's th' folk at's 
 queer.' 
 
 ' Yi ; but brass breeds a deal o' strife.' 
 
 ' For them as wants aboon their share, 
 'Lijah.' 
 
 ' But thaa sees, Enos, the question is, What 
 is their share ?' 
 
 ' Him as is aboon sattles that, 'Lijah. Thaa 
 knows He gav' one five, another two, while 
 t'other chap nobbud geet one, and that they 
 took fro' him.' 
 
 ' Aw'll tell thaa what, Enos, that French 
 watter's made thee talk like a parson. Thaa'll 
 ha' to soup on it agen.' 
 
 * Aw'se noan be partic'lar if it comes i' mi 
 gate, aw con tell yo'. But thaa seems strangely 
 put aat abaat it.' 
 
 Elijah laughed, and bade Enos good-night, 
 and the old man turned into his cottage to feast 
 on his porridge and milk ; and that evening, 
 in the quiet of his chamber, on his knees, he 
 asked God to bless * Maister Frank an' his wife, 
 an' o' 'at might belong to 'em' ; and then slept 
 as peacefiiUy as those whose heads v/ere pillov/ed 
 on down.
 
 THE TRAMP WEAVER'S REVENGE. 
 
 I. The Tramp Weaver, 
 II. Love Conquers All. 
 III. Transformed.
 
 I. 
 
 THE TRAMP WEAVER. 
 
 It was raining — a cold, persistent, autumnal 
 rain. 
 
 The clouds travelled low, and capped the 
 moorlands with wreaths of mist, and the wind 
 sobbed as it told the story of the year's decay. 
 Dead leaves, those mute messengers of nature's 
 decline, lay limp along the pathways, and the 
 hedgerows, swept of greenery, caught the falling 
 vapour in their thorny network and showed a 
 myriad glistening globes of moisture, gathered 
 and scattered at the moods of breeze and shov/er. 
 The hand of desolation lay on cottage gardens, 
 changing them into a wilderness, their flower- 
 stalks shorn of beauty, their cups of gold and 
 purple lying broken on the ground. The old 
 life of the village seemed as though it were
 
 296 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 sepulchred ; no child's voice rang along the 
 streets, no knot of neighbours stood chatting at 
 the cottage doors ; a pall of brooding sky hung 
 over all, and depression dwelt in every heart and 
 home. 
 
 Even gossip flagged in the dogger's shop. 
 Old Iron-ears was deafer than was his wont, and 
 the spirits of Tic-tak were run down — his wit 
 refused to strike. As for Elijah — work kept 
 him in countenance, for the threshold of winter 
 found him with many calls on his trade of 
 repairs. It was now his customers were 
 clamorous for dry feet and warm, and his hand 
 knew no pause in its labours. 
 
 ' It's a dree (wearisome) day,' said Iron- 
 ears. 
 
 ' Yi ; a deal o' wet's fallen lately. Aw'm 
 gettin' fair reawsty (rusty) wi* it misel'. If 
 'Lijah here wirnd teetotal he'd happen oil th' 
 wheels for us a bit, ey. Iron-ears.''' 
 
 'What doesto say.''' asked the man whose 
 aural organs were so unresponsive. 
 
 * Aw say, if 'Lijah here wirnd teetotal, we 
 mut have some ale on th' job.' 
 
 * Some folk's never content wi* aught,* said
 
 The Tramp Weaver. 297 
 
 Elijah. * Yo've getten it wet aatside, an' naa 
 yo' want it wet inside, an' o'.' 
 
 ' Nay, lad, noan so. It's th' cowd that's aat- 
 side, and we want summat warm to keep it aat.' 
 
 * Then yo' con go an' ax 'Senath to mak' yo' 
 a soup o' tay.' 
 
 * There's a poor critter aatside there as luks 
 as hoo'd do wi' a soup, an' no mistak',' said 
 Tic-tak. And, looking up, Elijah saw a forlorn 
 woman standing in the rain before the window 
 at which he was at work. 
 
 She was tall, with square shoulders raising 
 in sharp angles the threadbare shawl that hung 
 in dripping folds around them. Her face was 
 drawn, and wore a hungry, weary look, the eyes 
 being sunken, and set in dark rings and ablaze 
 with the wasting fires of disease. In years she 
 was but a girl ; misfortune, however, and sorrow 
 had played havoc with her frame, and she stood 
 a mute picture of despair. 
 
 Elijah rose from his stool, and, going to the 
 door, asked if he could ' do aught for her like.' 
 
 * Yi,' she said ; * aw'm witcherd (wet shod).' 
 
 * Come i'side an' let's look at 'em.' 
 
 The woman entered, and sitting down on an 
 
 38
 
 298 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 upturned box, took ofF her clogs, soaking as 
 they were, pulling down her dripping skirt to 
 hide the nakedness of her stockingless feet. 
 
 Elijah took the clogs and gave them a mute 
 inspection. Then, throwing them aside, he said : 
 
 * Thaa mun hav' a pair o' new uns.' 
 
 The woman laughed a dry and painful laugh ; 
 then, reaching out her hand, laid hold of the 
 worn clogs, and, putting out her bare feet, 
 sought secretly to replace them. 
 
 * Why, thi feet's bleedin', lass !* said Elijah 
 with some concern, 
 
 ' Not they,' was her quick reply. And she 
 tried to hide the pain that stung her swollen 
 feet as she forced them into the dilapidated 
 clogs. 
 
 ' Aw tell thee thi feet's bleedin'. Sithee, 
 there are marks on th' floor where thaa's bin 
 sittin'.' 
 
 And it was even so — the bare soles of the 
 woman's feet had left blood-stains on the flag- 
 floor of the dogger's shop. 
 
 ' Tak' 'em off agen, lass. Aw see they 
 punish thee. Aw con find thee a yesier pair, 
 and some as turns wet, an' o'.'
 
 The Tramp Weaver. 299 
 
 The woman hesitated. Then she said : 
 ' Nay, aw'll keep 'em on naa aw've getten 
 *em on. Besides, aw've no brass.' 
 
 * Nowe, thaa doesn't favour ony. But we're 
 noan to a pair o' clogs to sich Hke as thee. 
 Tak' 'em off. Aw con fettle 'em, an' yo' con 
 hav' these as a swop.' 
 
 On second thoughts the woman reseated her- 
 self and unclasped the old clogs. But their 
 removal was more difficult than before, and, 
 careful as she was, she peeled the surface of her 
 feet in their tenderest part as she at last suc- 
 ceeded in freeing herself from their grip. She 
 bit her lips to hide the pain, and then was 
 caught in the toils of a choking cough. 
 
 It was now Asenath entered the shop, who, 
 on seeing the woman sitting barefooted, made 
 inquiries in her frank fashion as to who she was, 
 and what was her business with the three men 
 who stood staring round her. 
 
 ' Hoo's ill, lass ; tak' her an' give her a cup 
 o' tay.' 
 
 * It's very good o' yo',' said the woman ; ' but 
 aw mun be goin'. Let's try those clogs yo 
 swopped wi' me for th' owd uns,*
 
 300 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 ' Thaa'll never get 'em on those feet o' thine ; 
 they'll cut 'em o' i' pieces. They're new uns, 
 thaa knows,' said Tic-tak. 
 
 ' Aw'se hav' to, else go baat ' and she 
 
 forced with determinate strength the poor, 
 lacerated feet into the stiff, new clogs that 
 Elijah handed to her. 
 
 But the agony was more than she bargained 
 for. Her strong self-control gave way, and she 
 fainted. 
 
 ' That lass is going no further to-neet, 'Lijah. 
 Yo' chaps mun get her across to aar haase, an' 
 aw'll see to her. Hoo's somebody's, thaa 
 knows.' 
 
 ' Yi ; they all belong to sombry,' was the 
 philosophic comment of Tic-tak. ' It's a weary 
 world — it is forshure.' 
 
 As soon as the woman came out of the faint 
 she was supported by the two men to Elijah's 
 house, where Asenath had already gone to pre- 
 pare for the sufferer's wants. Reaching the 
 home, they placed her beside the fire that 
 burned for her a bright welcome, and retired, 
 leaving th^ women alone. 
 
 At first the woman was silent, if not sullen,
 
 The Tramp Weaver. 301 
 
 but Asenath was not long in finding a way to 
 her heart. Very soon the little attentions and 
 kindnesses began to tell, and when the poor 
 feet were bathed and bandaged, and the wet 
 garments removed, the stranger looked into 
 Asenath's face, and said : 
 
 * Aw durnd desarve thi trouble.* 
 
 ' Thaa desarves o' thaa's getten, an* more. 
 Th' strong, thaa knows, has to help them as is 
 weak.' 
 
 ' But aw'm naught to thee.' 
 
 * Yi, thaa art. Thaa'rt a woman, an' aw'm 
 one, an' o'. Hutch up, an' warm thisel' ; thaa't 
 all on a' dither.' 
 
 ' There's noan so mony o' thi mak' i' this 
 world — leastways, aw've noan found *em.' 
 
 ' Happen more than thaa thinks, lass. 
 There's a deal o' human natur'.' 
 
 'But noan o' yore sort.' 
 
 ' Ne'er mind. Soup that tay, it'll do thee 
 good.' 
 
 As the woman drank the tea a returning life 
 brought the flush back to her cheeks, the pallor 
 of which so frightened Asenath, and roused the 
 sympathy of that good woman's heart.
 
 302 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 ' Hasto noabry belongin' thee — no friends, 
 Hke?' asked Asenath. 
 
 ' If aw hav', aw durnd know where to look 
 for 'em,' repHed the woman. 
 
 ' What doesto do when thaa'rt a' whom ?' 
 
 * Weyve,' was the short rejoinder. 
 
 ' Aw thought as mich. An' where might thi 
 whom be .'*' 
 
 ' Bruntleigh.' 
 
 ' Haa is't thaa'rt aat o' wark ?' continued 
 Asenath, ' Weyvin's noan so bad naa. There's 
 
 plenty o' shops i' this parish, an' o' raand abaat, 
 
 > > > 
 an o . 
 
 ' Aw'm fain to yer it. Aw want wark i' this 
 parish, if there's ony chonce.' 
 
 ' Thaa's wed, aw see,' said Asenath, pointing 
 to the ring that loosely circled the lean finger 
 of the woman. ' Is thi mon dead ?' 
 
 * Nowe, worse luck !' 
 
 ' Hooisht ! thaa munnot talk i' that feshion. 
 Wish noabry dead, thaa knows.' 
 
 ' Aw wish aw were dead misel', but aw'se noan 
 die till aw've sattled them as makes me wish it !' 
 
 * There's two on 'em, then?' asked Asenath. 
 The stranger nodded.
 
 The Tramp Weaver. 303 
 
 ' An' one on 'em's a woman, aw'll be bun'. 
 Naa, isn't hoo?' 
 
 An angry fire gleamed in the stranger's eye, 
 and a spasm contracted the long throat, as 
 though of suppressed wrath. Then, looking up 
 at Asenath with an expression that chilled even 
 her stout-set nerves, she said : 
 
 ' Yi, one on 'em's a woman.' 
 
 ' An' t'other thi maister ?' queried Asenath. 
 
 ' He used to be afoore he left me.' 
 
 *Did he leave thee for a pretty face, then?' 
 
 ' Yi, after he'd spoiled mine.' 
 
 Asenath saw by the firelight that the speaker's 
 face had been once beautiful. There was a glory 
 in the ruins which neither man's brutality nor 
 want's pinch had wholly destroyed. It was a 
 pure face, too, but a face incensed by long and 
 silently-borne wrong, a face hungry for requital, 
 if not revenge. And as Asenath continued to 
 look into it, she understood how it had been 
 spoiled, for a scar seamed the forehead, and one 
 of the eyes was drawn as from a healed wound. 
 
 ' Ey, dear, there's weary wark wi' pratty 
 faces. They've made mischief ever sin' th' 
 warld started,' said Asenath in musing mood.
 
 304 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 ' Yi ; but aw' 11 spoil hers afoore hoo's done, 
 that aw wilL Hoo'll not tak' mi mon fro' 
 me for naught !' cried the woman in wrathful 
 tones. * As there's a God aboon aw'U be even 
 wi' her !' And she shook her wasted arm at the 
 rafters over her head. 
 
 * Thaa munnot talk i' that feshion, lass. 
 Him as is aboon '11 square off all owd scores, 
 but He'll tak' His own time o'er it. He can 
 spoil a pratty face better nor thaa con. Leave 
 'em, lass. Him as is aboon '11 do reight.' 
 
 * Aw once talked like thee,' said the stranger. 
 ' Noabry prayed harder nor aw did, but it were 
 all bobbin-windin',* an' naught else.' 
 
 * Well, if thaa'rt wise thaa'll leave th' Almeety 
 to Hissel',' said Asenath. ' He's noan aboon 
 bein' helped, but He willn'd be meddled wi'. 
 Thaa knows He says, '* Vengeance is Mine." 
 Durnd thee touch what thaa's naught to do wi'.' 
 
 ' Aw'se find 'em, onyroad, or aw'll die o'er 
 th' job. Aw've noan so mich strength left, but 
 aw'll howd aat till aw've found 'em, choose- 
 haa.' 
 
 * Haa far hasto come .?' asked Asenath. 
 
 * An expression meaning wasted labour.
 
 The Tramp Weaver. 305 
 
 * Aw'll tell thee mi tale, an' then thaa'll know 
 all,' said the woman. 
 
 'Thaa's no need to unless thaa likes, thaa 
 knows.' 
 
 *Aw know that, but aw con tell it thee, 
 though it's th' owd tale thaa's yerd a score o' 
 times. Aw were wed when aw were nobbud a 
 lass to as daycent a felley as ever broke brade — 
 he were a teetotal an' o', and went to Sundo'- 
 scoo'. But somehaa, i' a bit, he broke th' tone, 
 and left off t'other. Then all began o' goin' 
 wrang. He tuk to stoppin' aat o' neets, an' 
 then he started lakin' (idling) an' his wage 
 were docked. He come whom one day, an' he 
 sez, " Mary Ann, aw'm baan to the seaside at 
 th' wakes." An aw sez, " Nay, thaa'll surely 
 never leave me i' th' way aw am. AwVe no 
 braas nor naught." An' he sez, * Thaa's getten 
 thi mother ; thaa mun do th' best thaa con." 
 And when th' wakes come he left me. While 
 he were away mi little un were born. It wor 
 dead, poor thing ! an' a good job it wor. Th' 
 Lord wor merciful for once. Well, when he 
 come back he come back wur' nor ever. He 
 hadn't bin whom a week afore he struck me i' 
 
 39
 
 3o6 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 th' face wi' his neyve (fist). There were never 
 a blow 'at smarted as that did ! It were th' 
 first time as ever he laid hands on me. He's 
 peyled me mony a time since, but he never hurt 
 at after as he did that fust time. Aw con 
 a'most feel the blow yet. Well, aw put a good 
 face on it o', but it were no good, he got wur' 
 and wur'. Then th' second child were born. 
 It nobbud lived six week, an' all th' time it 
 skriked (cried). There were summat wrang 
 wi' it fro' its birth. Then aw went back to th' 
 factory ; but all aw addled went to pay up his 
 bets. But aw could ha' stood o' that, an' wur' ; 
 but when aw fun' aat he'd taken on wi' that 
 brassen-faced hussy, th' devil come into me, an' 
 aw've bin i' hell ever sin'. Well, things went 
 on better an' wur' for o'er two year ; but one 
 day he left me, an' hoo wi' him.' 
 
 * An' good riddance, an' o', aw'se think,' said 
 Asenath. 
 
 'Look yo' here. We're noan o' us saints. 
 But her as is cornd forgive th' woman 'at tak's 
 her husband fro' her ; leastways, aw cornd, an' 
 aw'm noan baan to try.' 
 
 ' But thaa knows grace con do a deal,' re- 
 marked the good woman.
 
 The Tramp Weaver. 307 
 
 ' Happen it con,' replied the woman, ' where 
 there's no human natur' i' th' job. Has a 
 woman ever crossed th' threshold o' thi haase?' 
 
 ' Nowe, by Guy !' cried Asenath, rising ; ' an' 
 it '11 be ill luck for th' first as does.' 
 
 ' Yi ; aw thought as mich. Aw towd thee 
 natur' were stronger nor grace, didn't aw?' 
 
 Asenath saw that in her haste she had over- 
 stepped her creed, and, sitting down, said : 
 
 ' Aw were awlus quick wi' mi tung, but it's 
 th' heart, thaa knows, an' not th' tung aat o' 
 which all th' murders come.' 
 
 For a few minutes the women were silent. 
 The rain lashed the windows, and the wind 
 howled round the cottage, chasing the leaves 
 that fell from the nursery at the rear. Now 
 and again an importunate gust would seize the 
 door and rattle it as though in anger at its non- 
 admittance, and then tear off to toss the trees, 
 or scour the moors in wrathful chase. Nightfall 
 was nearing, chill and drear, the low-lying 
 clouds throwing over all an early darkness 
 which the flickering firelight in vain seught to 
 dispel, and which the hearts of the women 
 seemed to welcome. 
 
 ' Well, aw mun be goin'. An' aw cornd
 
 3o8 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 thank thee enugh for thi kindness,' said the 
 stranger to Asenath. 
 
 ' But thaa's nowhere to go to. An' if thaa 
 had, thaa's naught to go wi'. Sit thee still ; 
 thaa cornd mend thisel'.' 
 
 ' Yi, aw've somewhere to go, an' my legs 
 'il carry me. An' when aw get there th' job 
 '11 soon be sattled. They tell me he's workin' 
 at th' reservoir o'er th' tops yonder — and hoo's 
 wi' him. Aw'se be even wi' 'em to-morn.' 
 
 * An' what wilto do to be even wi' 'em, lass.?' 
 
 'Nay, aw cornd tell. Aw'll trust to th' 
 chonce and see what gate oppens.' 
 
 ' Onyroad, thaa's baan to stop here to-neet. 
 So soup up that tay, and rest thee a bit afoore 
 thaa goes to bed, an' we'll hope for a better 
 morn an' a better mind. It fair rains an' blows 
 to-neet, an' aw welly think there's as mich storm 
 i'side thi heart as there is aatside this haase, isn't 
 there ?' 
 
 ' Happen there is.' 
 
 ' Well, we'll ax th' Almeety to send th' sun- 
 leet aatside and in when th' mornin' comes. 
 Sleep con lift th' claads o' th' soul, thaa knows, 
 as neet con lift the claads o' th' sky,'
 
 II. 
 
 LOVE CONQUERS ALL. 
 
 When morning came the clouds had lifted. 
 The sky was bright with an exceeding bright- 
 ness. The mood of the woman, however, was 
 still dark, and this Asenath saw as soon as 
 she looked into the haggard and vengeful face. 
 Sleep had failed to exorcise the demon — unrest 
 and wrath continued to haunt the pale features. 
 
 ' Thaa's noan slept off thi evil mind, aw see.' 
 said Asenath, ' but there's a glint o' sunshine for 
 thee, thaa sees ; it's noan all dark.' 
 
 ' Not for thee, happen, but mi sun set long 
 sin', and aw'se never see it agen.' 
 
 ' Durnd talk i' that feshion, lass, it's noan 
 reight, thaa knows. To them as is upright 
 there's awlus leet in th' darkness.* 
 
 But the woman only shook her head.
 
 3IO The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 ' Eat those two-thre porritch, thaa'Jl need 'em 
 afoore thi journey's end, If thaa's baan to th' 
 reservoir. WilJn't hoo, 'Lijah?' 
 
 Yi ; it's aboon ten mile, and o'er th' 
 moors an' o'. Are thi feet yesier ?' 
 
 ' They durnd hurt so mich this mornin'. 
 An' when aw con pay yo' yo's hav' th' money 
 for th' new clogs.' 
 
 ' Thaa'rt welcome to 'em if thaa nobbud 
 minds what thaa does wi' em. Aw couldn't 
 like to shoe thee for arrands o' wrath, thaa 
 knows.' 
 
 The woman ate the porridge in silence. 
 Then, finishing her meal, donned her shawl, 
 throwing it over her head, and, wishing Elijah 
 and his wife a ' good-mornin',' limped out into 
 the roadway that led across the distant moors. 
 
 * Yon's getten a history o' her own,' said 
 Elijah. 
 
 'Yo're reight, hoo has, poor lass! Hoo's 
 supped sorrow i' her time, an' plenty on't. But 
 hoo's wrang i' feightin' her own wrongs. Them 
 sorts better i' th' hands o' th' Almeety.' 
 
 'Reight agen, 'Senath ; thaa talks like a 
 book. They welly awlus cut theirsel's as tak' 
 th' tools aat o' His hands as is aboon.'
 
 Love Conquers All. 311 
 
 Both man and wife watched the girl as she 
 climbed the distant brow. Sunshine rained on 
 her, and birds carolled as she trod the uplands 
 — one of those cruel moods of Nature when she 
 mocks at man's despair. 
 
 Reaching the moors, the path she trod lost 
 itself in the heather, and the girl paused to take 
 her bearings. A flock of sheep, with long, 
 jagged coats of wool, scampered past — sheep 
 having no shepherd ; and the plaintive cry of a 
 plover, as it wheeled overhead, was carried on 
 the breeze. In the distance, and clear in the 
 transparency of a morning following a night of 
 rain, stood a hut, marking the boundary of a 
 disused quarry ; and to the right a ruined 
 chimney, the memorial of Nature's exhausted 
 stores on this bleak fell-side. Beyond rose a 
 mound curved like the back of a fish, rich with 
 colour, and robed in rare autumnal beauty, from 
 behind which curled wreaths of thin white smoke. 
 
 Deeming the vapour to point to habitation, 
 the woman directed her steps towards this 
 domestic beacon, but the distance was deceitful, 
 and her sore feet found the journey jading and 
 long. At last, however, she rounded the 
 crown, and, looking below, saw a whitewashed
 
 3 1 2 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 house, at the rear of which grew a cluster of 
 stunted trees. Weary of the depression of 
 soHtude, and scared with the loneHness that so 
 long haunted her, she quickened her steps 
 towards its porch, glad of a respite, and eager 
 to know the path she must take on her self- 
 imposed journey. 
 
 Crossing the narrow garden plot, she beat 
 with her hand on the open door, receiving by 
 way of response a rough and unconventional 
 ' Come in.' 
 
 It was with a timid step she entered, to find 
 herself before a tall, masculine woman, whose 
 face looked as though hewn in granite, so red 
 and so strong were its features. She was 
 bending over the fire boiling herbs, and for 
 salute threw her head over the left shoulder, her 
 right hand all the while stirring the iron pot. 
 On the table stood a stone bottle, and a rich odour 
 pervaded the kitchen and stole out in steamy 
 wreaths, sweetening even the moorland air. 
 
 ' Con yo' tell me haa fur Bellfield reservoir 
 is fro' here .''' asked the wanderer. 
 
 *Yi, it's abaat three mile and a haif Are 
 yo' baan that road, or summat ?'
 
 Love Conquers All. 3 1 3 
 
 * Aw thought o' doin' so,' said the girl. 
 
 ' Then think agen, an' geet back to where 
 thaa come fro', for they've getten smo'-pox 
 at Bellfield, and they're deein' like rotten sheep. 
 Aw'm boiling yarbs for 'em naa, poor critters ! 
 There's noabry '11 go near 'em.' 
 
 * Yo' know Bellfield, then, do yo' ?' 
 
 ' Aw ought to. Mi maister's one o' th' 
 gangers there. They're i' a weary way, aw 
 con tell yo'.' 
 
 * An' mi maister's there an' o',' said the girl, 
 forgetting her anger now she knew her husband 
 stood in risk. 
 
 * An* what were his name?' 
 ' Ben Porritt.' 
 
 * Whod, does he walk with his toes in ,?' 
 
 ' Yi, that's him ; he were lamed when he 
 were a lad i' th' factory.* 
 
 * An' thaa sez he's yore maister ?' 
 
 * Aw were wed to him onyroad four year ago.' 
 ' Well, then, he's oather wed again, or ought 
 
 to be, for he's getten a woman living wi' him — 
 a gradely-lookin' lass hoo is, an o' — leastways 
 hoo used to be. But hoo's daan wi' th' smo'- 
 pox naa — an' him an' o', for the matter o' that.' 
 
 40
 
 314 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 The girl threw herself down on the settle, and 
 her pale, drawn face grew paler and more drawn. 
 
 ' Han they it badly ?' she asked. 
 
 ' Abaat as bad as they con hav* it. Hoo's 
 blind, and he's ravin'. An' thaa sez he's thi 
 felley?' 
 
 The girl nodded. Then, rising to her feet, 
 she said : ' Aw mun go ; show me th' quickest 
 gate.' 
 
 ' If thaa'll tak' mi advice, thaa'll go thi ways 
 whom agen. If he's dropped thee for another, 
 what's the use o' botherin' abaat him — and naa 
 when hi's getten smo'-pox an' o'.^' 
 
 ' Aw'm his wife, an' aw'll be where he is, dead 
 or alive. So show me th' gate, and look slippy 
 abaat it.* 
 
 ' Well, yo' see yon gap,' said the woman, 
 coming to the door. * Yo' go thro it, and 
 foller th' drift -path till yo' come to th' first 
 hill ; and when yo've getten o'er that, yo'll 
 leet o' Bell field reservoir. Th' huts they live 
 in are on th' furder side. But aw tell thee, if 
 thaa'rt wise thaa'll leave well alone.' 
 
 ' Thaa means aw'll leave th' ill uns to their- 
 sels .?'
 
 Love Conquers All. 315 
 
 * Yi, summat o' that sort.' 
 
 ' Never, when one o' th' ill uns belongs to 
 me.' 
 
 ' But he's left thee, thaa sez.* 
 
 ' But he's mine for o' that.' And turning in 
 the direction of the gap, she struck out with a 
 changed heart on a changed errand. 
 
 The moods of the mind are as swift in their 
 changefulness as those of nature. There are 
 mental bolts from the blue, as well as the magic 
 clearance of sullen and wrathful resolves. A 
 few moments since this woman's heart was dark 
 with hatred and revenge ; now it was aglovv? 
 with love and mercy. 
 
 She reached the huts within an hour or her 
 start from the cottage where she heard the news 
 of the epidemic. They were built in rows, long 
 and low, many of them dilapidated and forsaken. 
 A dread silence haunted them, and no signs of 
 activity were near. At the adjacent reservoir 
 the works were at a standstill, one half the men 
 being down with the fell disease and the other 
 half having decamped. A doctor's gig stood 
 about a hundred yards av/ay from the nearest 
 hut, and, apart from the man who held the horse.
 
 3i6 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 no human being was visible. For a minute the 
 girl was as one dazed ; then, acting as though 
 on sudden resolve, she walked towards the hut 
 that lay on the opposite side of the path, and 
 entered. 
 
 It was some little time before she grew ac- 
 customed to its darkness, and the overpowering 
 stench brought a faintness over her long-strained 
 nerves. Slowly, however, her eyes took in the 
 surroundings. On three bunks lay three men, 
 their faces purple and blotched, one of whom 
 was giving utterance to incoherent sentences, 
 and tossing wildly to and fro. Once or twice 
 he made frantic efforts to rise, but was held 
 down by the other men, on whom the disease 
 seemed not to have laid so deadly a hold, 
 who, when they had quieted him, returned to 
 the rude wooden settles whereon they lay. 
 
 While she thus stood a lady in the garb of a 
 nurse entered, who, on seeing the woman, some- 
 what imperatively inquired of her the business 
 that brought her to this plague zone on the 
 moors. 
 
 ' Aw'm seekin' mi mon,' she replied. ' They 
 say he's daan wi' smo'-pox, an' aw'm come as
 
 Love Conquers All. 317 
 
 ought to nurse him. Con yo' tell me where aw 
 shall find him ?* 
 
 ' What is his name ?' asked the lady. 
 
 * Ben Porritt.' 
 
 ' Ben Porritt ! There's only one Ben Porritt 
 here, and his wife is with him. You are mis- 
 taken, I think.' 
 
 The girl burst into tears, and her sobs came 
 so quickly that at first she could not speak. 
 Then, suppressing them, she said : 
 
 ' Hoo's not his wife — aw'm his wife, an' wor 
 wedded to him aboon four year ago. Aw 
 know he geet tired o' me, an' tuk up wi' Molly, 
 but aw'm his wife, an' aw mun see him and 
 nurse him an o'.' 
 
 In a flash the lady read the poor girl's history, 
 and, taking her by the hand, led her out of the 
 hut. As they walked between the silent rows, 
 she turned to her, and said : 
 
 ' Then you've come to nurse the man who 
 has forsaken you.? But if you nurse him, you'll 
 have to nurse the woman as well. They lie 
 together in the same hut.' 
 
 The girl stopped as though suddenly smitten, 
 and, looking in the lady's face, cried :
 
 -I 
 
 1 8 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 ' What ! nurse her as robbed me o* mi 
 maister ?' 
 
 ' Yes, you'll be obliged. If you will do this 
 it will be a relief to the strain that is on me. 
 Sister Lily and I are here alone, and the work, 
 is more than we can manage. There are 
 twenty-three down with the disease, and we 
 don't know which way to turn. You may 
 help us if you will, but if you nurse your hus- 
 band you will be obliged to nurse the one that 
 is with him. It is hard, I know, but in times 
 like these we cannot stand on sentiment.* 
 
 The girl still stood, her features telling the 
 story of the battle waging in her heart. Love 
 and jealousy fought a fierce fight, and times oft 
 jealousy v/as uppermost. 
 
 ' I shall have to leave you for a little while. 
 See, I live in that hut that stands by itself Go 
 in, and I will come to you as soon as I can.* 
 
 ' Nurse her !' said the girl ; ' never ! They'se 
 both dee fust !' And she turned her steps 
 towards the hut to which the lady had pointed. 
 ' But if aw could save Ben, av/ would. Yi, 
 aw'd lay daan mi life for th' lad if hoo were 
 nobbud aat o' th' gate. Poor lad ! Aw wish
 
 Love Conquers All. 319 
 
 the Lord would tak' her an' leave Ben to me. 
 Haa is it, aw wonder, he awlus puts summat i' 
 aar gate r' 
 
 She entered the hut. It was spotlessly clean, 
 and smelt as fresh as the moorlands she had so 
 lately crossed. The rudeness of the interior 
 v/as toned down by evidences of refinement and 
 culture. A nosegay of flowers stood on the 
 table by the side of a plate of fruit, and a 
 Prayer-Book lay on the snow-v/hite cloth. 
 
 The girl sat down, over-awed by the quiet- 
 ness and sacredness of the surroundings, and, 
 looking along the walls, her eyes rested on a 
 crucifix. 
 
 It was a small gilt crucifix, yet perfect in 
 workmanship. There the Lord hung, with 
 bent and thorn-crowned head, the arms out- 
 stretched and held by pierced hands to the cross 
 tree of the torture frame. The long hair, 
 clotted with the blood-drops, lay over the naked 
 shoulders, the wasted body girded round the 
 loins with the scant drapery which even the 
 Roman brutality could not withhold. 
 
 * It's Jesus Christ,' said the girl to herself 
 * Him as v/e used to sing abaat at Sundo'-schoo'.
 
 320 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 Aw wonder what hoo has Him hangin' there 
 for ? Happen hoo's a CathoHc. Aw've never 
 seen one o' that mak' afoore.' And she crossed 
 the floor to look into the face of the suffering 
 Christ. 
 
 She could not tell how it was — indeed she did 
 not trouble to find out — but as she looked virtue 
 seemed to pass out of the figure, and a calm 
 stole into her heart. There was something 
 possessing her, and it took the sting out of her 
 jealousy, while the founts of her poisoned love 
 began to flow sweet and clear. The memory 
 of past wrongs died away as she had seen the 
 mist die away before a sunrise, and she saw the 
 suffering woman who had despoiled her as a 
 sister, just as she saw Ben as her husband loved 
 and forgiven. Thus she felt, as she looked in 
 rapture on the image of the Christ. 
 
 Silently fell the footsteps of the lady as she 
 returned towards the hut, and silently she 
 entered, to find the girl transfixed before the 
 crucifix. Looking on her, she made the sign of 
 the cross, and breathed a prayer to Heaven on 
 her behalf Then, stepping up behind her, and 
 touching her shoulder, she said :
 
 Love Conquers AIL 321 
 
 * And can you suffer, too ?' 
 
 Great tears were falling down the wasted 
 cheeks, and, looking round, she replied : 
 
 ' Aw con wi' Him afoore me.' 
 
 ' Then you'll nurse the girl that's wronged 
 you?' 
 
 ' Yi, like a mother.' 
 
 And the lady took the weary head on her 
 shoulders, and kissed the bloodless lips, and in 
 her breath there was healing, and in her pre- 
 sence a great joy. 
 
 It was not that night, however, she com- 
 menced her labour of love, for preliminaries had 
 to be observed with clock-like precision. The 
 girl was made to sit down to a plain meal, and 
 many were the instructions she received. The 
 two ladies found her quick to take all the hints 
 they offered, and before they saw her to sleep 
 they were thankful for the aid so unforeseenly 
 sent them. Ben Porritt's was a malignant case, 
 and that morning the doctor had looked some- 
 what hopelessly at him, while he held out but 
 a faint chance for the recovery of the woman. 
 He had stated that with careful nursing they 
 
 41
 
 322 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 might pull round, but with only two pairs of 
 hands what more could be done ? 
 
 That night, as the girl slept, the disease ran 
 riot in many a hut, while the nurses, sleepless 
 and vigilant, moved from bed to bed. Strong 
 men breathed their last, forbidding and repulsive 
 in their death-stare, and the Sisters, quietly and 
 unaided, carried in the wooden shells, and lay 
 therein the rotting forms of those who but a 
 few days before were stalwart men. It was the 
 revel of disease in its most loathsome form — a 
 revel all the more fearful because of the silence 
 of the great moors on which it sported, and 
 because of the darkness of the night. And 
 those who fought with it were frail women ; and 
 those who watched, the silent, relentless stars. 
 But in the hut hung the form of that Incarnate 
 Sufferer whose spirit fed the fount of 
 woman's love, and stayed the arm of woman's 
 service. Nor were there wanting those among 
 the sufferers who listened from the Sisters' lips 
 to the story that the little crucifix so mutely, 
 yet so eloquently, told.
 
 III. 
 
 TRANSFORMED. 
 
 They were dreary days the Sisters spent in 
 companionship with disease on the lonely 
 Bellfield Moors. Not that time could be said 
 to hang heavily on their hands — they were too 
 busy for that. But to look ever into the same 
 scarred faces, save when they looked into their 
 own, blanched and worn ; to hear the same 
 delirious and piteous voices — this was wearing 
 even to nerves fortified to the task. Then the 
 rains, so depressing in their continuous fall, 
 beating down the tawny herbage, and playing 
 their ceaseless tattoo on the felt-covered roofs of 
 the huts ; and the wind, never weary of dirge 
 and sob — no wonder there were hours when the 
 Sisters, almost driven to madness, sought the 
 glory and inspiration of the little crucifix that 
 hung on the whitewashed wall of their room.
 
 324 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. . 
 
 And the girl-wife, with her story of wrong, 
 she, too, felt the leaden hours, and put up 
 many a prayer for strength and patience to 
 Him who in His hour of darkness wondered 
 why His Father's face was veiled. 
 
 It was the early hour of morning, when the 
 chill defies the warmest hearth, and lays its 
 hand on strongest hope and resolve. Ben slept, 
 but his paramour lay tossing in wild delirium. 
 Again and again the watchful wife drew the 
 thin sheet over the restless girl ; then, weary of 
 what seemed a useless task, she sat down and 
 brooded over her wrongs. Before her, in the 
 flicker of the night-light, she saw the outlines 
 of her rival's coarse type of beauty. There 
 was the rounded shoulder, and the full-orbed 
 bosom, tempestuously troubled with the quick- 
 beating pulse ; and the face, with its ripe lips 
 and rounded cheeks, spotted with the fell 
 disease. Looking on this, she thought of her 
 past prayer for its spoliation, and shuddered as 
 she saw the prayer answered. Then, turning to 
 the little time-piece the Sister left with her, she 
 read the approach of the hour for the adminis- 
 tration of the cordial with which science sought 
 to stem the tide of death. How much
 
 Transformed. 325 
 
 depended on its observance she well knew, for 
 the Sisters had warned her that if she slept or 
 overlooked it, the end would draw apace. In 
 the gloom the evil heart once more av/oke. 
 The spirit of hate which she supposed the 
 crucifix had conquered again came forth from the 
 dry places wherein it had wandered, and brought 
 with it spirits more evil than itself Ben was 
 recovering — her Ben — hers once by love, and 
 hers by right for ever. Whose would he be 
 when the tide of life restored him ? Would he 
 cling to this strange v/oman — or would he 
 return to his first love.'' True, the girl's 
 beauty was gone. She had prayed for that. 
 But there was fascination other than beauty — 
 the fascination of the will, which she knew so 
 well this temptress possessed. The chances 
 were against her. Ben had already recognised 
 her, and, as she thought, softened somewhat 
 towards her, though few words had been 
 spoken between them. But the future was 
 uncertain. If the girl lived all chances of 
 reunion would end. Why should she live.'' 
 What claim had she on life — or on her, Ben's 
 lawful wife, who at that moment was the 
 minister of her life.'' Might she not, as nurse,
 
 326 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 feign sleep, or withhold the draught ? Then 
 her rival would die and Ben be hers for ever ! 
 It was a dread moment, and the poor wife's 
 spent nerves trembled beneath its strain. 
 
 Once more her eyes caught the timepiece, and 
 in the dim light she saw the fingers were within 
 five minutes of the fateful hour. A moment's 
 hesitation, and her resolve was made — she 
 would sleep. 
 
 But she could not. As the little monitor 
 beat she found herself counting its feeble ticks. 
 Twenty, twenty-five, thirty, and then her 
 memory lost all power of calculation. She re- 
 commenced, again to lose. At last she opened 
 her eyes. Surely the hour was passed ! but 
 looking, she found to her dismay but two and a 
 half minutes were sped. What an eternity in 
 those moments ! 
 
 Again she closed her eyes. On beat the 
 watch, relentless in the destinies it was sealing. 
 With mute lips she muttered to herself the 
 passage of the flying seconds, only to lose them 
 in her throbbing brain. Then she ventured 
 another glance at the tiny dial, to find it yet a 
 minute to the fatal hour. 
 
 Another struggle to close those watchers
 
 Transformed. 327 
 
 which she knew God pleaded with her to keep 
 open. The power was gone, her eyes were held 
 waking. Against her will she looked, now into 
 the face of her despoiled rival, and then at the 
 face of the warning watch. 
 
 She saw the girl was dosing. There she lay, 
 uncovered, in the glory of womanhood, in the 
 loathsomeness of disease. Was it not her duty 
 to awaken her and administer the draught ? 
 
 Then she looked at Ben — her own Ben. 
 And there passed before her the vision of a 
 cottage in a nook of greenery, and of a fireside 
 where comfort and love were wont to dwell. 
 She dreamed it might be hers again, yet not if 
 the woman lived whose life she now held in her 
 hands. Then she saw a dead baby, a tiny one, 
 whose breath was never drawn, dead from its 
 birth, and by its side another, ' clemmed ' and 
 puny, and the hand that slew them lay there, 
 helpless, by her side. Yes, blood cried for 
 blood, and love must be avenged of its wrono-s 
 
 She lifted her eyes to the wall ; some spiritual 
 magnetism lifted them ; and there she saw the 
 crucifix — the same bowed head, with its thorny 
 crown, the same long hair, with its gouts of 
 blood, the same outstretched pierced hands.
 
 328 The'^ign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 And there came, too, the same voice : ' Can you 
 suffer?' 
 
 Then the full tide of that life swept through 
 her, and, rising, she filled the phial, and without 
 a falter placed it to the sick girl's mouth. 
 
 ' Here, Molly, sup thi medicine.' 
 
 The girl turned restlessly, allowing the liquid 
 to pass between her lips, and fell off into a 
 broken slumber. Then the watcher looked 
 round for the crucifix, but it was gone. A 
 great light, however, shone in its place, and in 
 the glow she stood transfDrmed. 
 
 In a little while Ben opened his eyes, and in 
 the dawning of a new consciousness — the con- 
 sciousness of returning health — saw before him 
 the two women who between them had divided 
 the passions of his life. 
 
 ' Is hoo dead V asked he of his wife. 
 
 The woman shook her head, and bade him be 
 silent lest he should disturb the crisis hour of 
 the sleeper. 
 
 ' Hoo's naught to thee. Hoo's done naught 
 but wrang thee. What for doesto bother wi' 
 
 her .'*' 
 
 ' Hoo's like thee, isn't hoo ^ Hoo's sick an* 
 needs tentin'.'
 
 Transformed. 329 
 
 * If hoo dees, willto hav' me agen, lass?' 
 Coldly and cruelly the words fell on the 
 
 woman's heart. She heard in them selfishness, 
 and the love awakened in her by the crucifix 
 began to wane. 
 
 ' Hoo'll live,' said the woman. ' Aw ve sin 
 her thro' th' worst.' 
 
 * What ! yo've nursed her ? and for me, an o' ^ 
 There were awlus summat abaat yo' aw could 
 never reckon up. What for didto come to me V 
 
 * Thaa were mi husband, wernd ta.'*' 
 
 ' Yi, but aw left thee. Didto come to nurse 
 me.?' 
 
 ' Nowe.* 
 
 ' What then ?* 
 
 ' Aw come to spoil thi little game an' hers.' 
 
 ' An' thaa fun sombry else had done it for 
 thee.?' 
 
 The woman nodded, and then continued : 
 
 * But aw thought as aw'd stop an' see yo' 
 both through it, an' aw hav'. As soon as hoo's 
 on th' mend aw'se leave yo' both for mi looms. 
 Aw'U noan be i' yore gate.' But as she was 
 talking the man slept. 
 
 As the dawn broke across the moors — broke 
 
 42
 
 330 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 in sweeping sheets of rain, and low, chasing 
 leaden clouds — one of the Sisters visited the 
 sick hut where the wife kept watch over the two 
 sleepers. Passing to the bedside of the girl, she 
 looked long and anxiously at her ; then, turning 
 to the woman, she said : 
 
 ' You gave her the medicine?' 
 
 ' Yi,' was the reply, ' aw've done o' as yo' 
 towd me.' 
 
 ' And at the time V 
 
 ' Yi, to th' minute ; an' hoo's slumbered on 
 an' off ever sin'.' 
 
 The Sister again looked at the girl, this time 
 with a keener scrutiny. Then she left the hut, 
 returning with the other lady who divided with 
 her the labours on these disease-haunted heights. 
 
 ' What do you think of her, nurse ?' 
 
 'She is dying, poor thing! It will all be 
 over in a little while. I don't think she will 
 waken from her unconsciousness.' 
 
 ' Dying !' cried the woman in a tone of terror. 
 
 ' Yes,' said the sister. 'You are sure you gave 
 her the medicine ? You did not sleep, did you ?' 
 
 ' Nowe ; hoo had th' medicine to th' tic-tak 
 by that watch o' yours.' 
 
 ' Two o'clock r
 
 Transformed. 331 
 
 * Yi, two o'clock to th' second. An' yo' say 
 hoo's deein' .?' 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 The three women stood round the bed — the 
 Sisters on each side, the woman at the foot, 
 with her long score of wrongs well-nigh 
 avenged. None of them spoke ; Death was 
 left in silence to do his worst, nor was he long 
 about the business. A few heavily - drawn 
 breaths, a faint rattle breaking the stillness of 
 the dread moment, a vibration of the frame as 
 though under the shock of some unseen hand, 
 and the poor idol of man's lust was beyond the 
 reach of the spoiler. Then the Sisters, unaided, 
 carried a wooden shell into the hut, wherein 
 they placed the corpse ; and, breathing a prayer 
 for the soul of the departed, they left her in the 
 dead-house to beating rain and wind. 
 
 The weeks passed — long weeks of rain and 
 cloud. Elijah toiled on at his clogs, listening 
 to the rude philosophy of Iron-ears and Tic-tak, 
 and talking over at evening with Asenath the 
 news of the day. The fall of the year was 
 telling its tale on the old dogger — his breath 
 came more heavily, and his stoop was more
 
 332 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 marked, and once or twice he remarked to his 
 wife that his days were numbered. She, poor 
 woman, knew this ah-eady, but hid her fears, 
 always carrying a cheerful mind. She meant to 
 be ' game,' as she called it, and cheered the old 
 man with her words and countenance. To her, 
 life had been no make-believe ; but a brave 
 spirit upheld her ; and, as she said years before, 
 'she meant to fiddle th' tune through to th' end.' 
 
 They were sitting by the fireside, Elijah 
 sorely plagued with his cough, while Asenath's 
 busy fingers clicked the steel needles with which 
 she knit the hose for winter's wear. Her good 
 man was dosing, and she watched the worn face 
 as it hung on the shrunken chest, and lived over 
 again the toils and sorrows of the past. Then 
 she laid her knitting on her knees and looked 
 into the fire. In the glowing embers were the 
 pictures of their yesterdays. Many a face shone 
 in the flame, and the sinking coals built them- 
 selves into scenes that had been, then crumbled 
 into ash, and left her memory gray with the 
 irrevocable past. 
 
 Elijah awoke, and for a moment lay in the 
 spasm of his prophetic cough. Then, turning 
 to his wife, he said :
 
 Transformed. 333 
 
 * Aw never towd thee, 'Senath, did aw?' 
 
 * Towd me what ?' 
 
 ' Why, abaat th' tramp weyver — her as we 
 gav' those clogs to six week sin'. Yo' know, 
 her as yo' took in for th' neet.' 
 
 ' Do yo' mean her as was seekin' her felley 
 over at Bellfield?' 
 
 ' Yi, th' very same. Hoo come wi' him to- 
 day to th' shop whol yo' were aat. An' hoo 
 paid me for th' clogs an' o'.' 
 
 ' Thaa never sez so !' 
 
 ' Yi, it's God's truth. An' aw'd a long talk 
 wi' 'em. He's gone back wi' her whom.' 
 
 ' An' where did hoo find him.^' 
 
 'At Bellfield, daan wi' th' smo'-pox. An' 
 hoo nursed him raand.' 
 
 ' An' what abaat t'other woman .^' inquired 
 Asenath. 
 
 ' Aw never thought to ax her.' 
 
 ' That's a mon all o'er, 'Lijah. Just th' 
 thing aw wanted to know abaat. An' haa did 
 hoo look.^' 
 
 ' Hoo looked gradely weel — a deal better nor 
 hoo did when hoo come to us that neet.' 
 
 'An' where wor they baan .^ Did hoo 
 say ? '
 
 334 ^^^ S'S'^ of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 ' Yi ; hoo said they wor baan back to th' owd 
 whom. And they seemed fain an' set up wi' one 
 another, an' o'.' 
 
 'An' what were he like?' 
 
 ' Oh, a shapless sort o' a chap. Aw mad' 
 naught mich on him. He wouldn't come 
 inside th' shop.' 
 
 * But aw would like to know abaat that t'other 
 woman as he went away wi'. Arto sure hoo 
 said naught abaat her?' 
 
 ' Sure, lass — not a word.' 
 
 'Well, what did hoo say abaat other things 
 like ? Did hoo say aught abaat me?' 
 
 ' Yi ; hoo said as hoo owed all to thee for thi 
 care that neet, and what thaa said to her abaat 
 her evil mind.' 
 
 ' Then there's summat at th' back as yo've 
 nod getten at. Hoo meant mischief when hoo 
 started for Bellfield. If ever aw seed murder 
 i' onybody's een, it were i' hers that mornin', 
 an' no mistak'. An' thaa sez thaa never axed 
 her abaat t'other woman ?' 
 
 ' Nowe, lass, aw've towd thee twice. Cornd 
 ta be satisfied?' 
 
 ' Ey, 'Lijah, thaa'rt as gawmless as ever thaa 
 wor. Just fancy, naa, never axing abaat th'
 
 Transformed. 335 
 
 woman hoo said hoo were after. Did hoo 
 say aught else?' 
 
 ' Yi ; hoo said hoo wor goin' back to her 
 looms — an' Ben an' o'.' 
 
 ' An' who wor Ben ?* 
 
 ' Why, her husband, forshure. Who didto 
 think he wor?' 
 
 ' An' yo' say he wor nobbud shapless.' 
 
 ' That wor o'. He looked hke one o' those 
 chaps as had supped enugh ale to float a mon 
 o' war.' 
 
 ' Well, aw wonder th' lass ever took to him 
 agen. If thaa ever left me, 'Lijah, thaa'd ha' to 
 leave me fo' good. Aw'd never look at thee 
 agen.' 
 
 ' Never's a long time, lass, thaa knows.' 
 
 ' So it is, but nod too long for a chap as 
 leaves his wife for ony hussey as comes across 
 his gate.' 
 
 ' Well, hoo's taken to him agen, thaa sees. 
 And hoo looked a deal better o'er the job than 
 hoo did afore.' 
 
 ' 'Lijah, there's some women as is foo's. 
 They'll put up wi' aught if it's fro' a felley. 
 Yo' can pike 'em up when yo' plez, and put 'em 
 daan when yo' plez ; it's o' reight if it's a felley
 
 33^^ The Sign of the Wooden Shoonc 
 
 as is doin' it. But aw'm noan o' that mak' misel'. 
 Aw never believed i' makin' misel' chep.' 
 
 * Thaa sees, lass, thaa's never bin tried, 
 Thaa's avvlus bin th' apple o' mi een.' 
 
 ' Thaa's never sin onybody better yet, 'Lijah.' 
 ' Nowe, lass, an' aw durnd think aw ever shall.' 
 
 * When thaa does thaa knows thaa's nobbud 
 to speak.' 
 
 ' An' thaa'll stan aside, doesto mean ?' 
 
 ' Yi ; but it'll be for good an' o', thaa knows.' 
 
 * Ey ! bless thee, thaa's o'most too owd to kiss 
 — leastways aw am. But come, we'll be lad and 
 lass for once.' 
 
 'Nay, 'Lijah ; thaa fair mak's me blush ; thaa'rt 
 welly gettin' past courtin'. But aw could ha' 
 liked to ha' yerd summat abaat that t'other 
 woman. Aw feel fair ill off as yo' didn't ax. 
 We'se never know naught naa.' 
 
 * 'Senath, thaa wor awlus a gradely woman, 
 an' thaa'll dee one. Aw welly think thaa toots 
 (prys) as mich as thaa did when thaa fun aat who 
 aw wor — when aw axed thee to wed me.' 
 
 * Yi ; an' aw'll find aat where t'other woman is 
 yet, 'Lijah, see if aw durnd !' 
 
 But that secret was in the graveyard on the 
 distant moors.
 
 TAKING DOWN THE SIGN. 
 
 43
 
 TAKING DOWN THE SIGN. 
 
 Iron-ears and Tic-tak were watching Elijah at 
 his work, but there was little life in their con- 
 versation. Not that they were without news — 
 only the news with which they were furnished 
 was sad and depressing, even to stalwart-minded 
 men like themselves. At best they were all 
 superstitious ; and, as with all superstitious 
 people, death was not congenial when it came 
 nigh them suddenly and in tragic form. There 
 is that in the common mind that always trembles 
 in presence of an epidemic ; the vulgar imagina- 
 tion not only clothes the terror in more fearful 
 garb, but multiplies its ravages until the reserve 
 force of nerve is destroyed. There is some- 
 thing haunting in the question, ' Who next ?' 
 and the individual recoils as he answers accord- 
 ing to the calculation of probabilities. It was
 
 340 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 this question that haunted the men in the 
 dogger's shop. Mutely they asked, and mutely 
 they answered it. This it was that silenced 
 them and surrounded them with gloom. They 
 were in the presence of a dread disease. 
 
 ' It talc's 'em fearful sudden like,' said 
 Iron-ears. ' Sim o' Tom's were nobbud daan wi' 
 it tv/o days an' aneet, an' aw'd hav' taken a lease 
 o' his life.' 
 
 * An' it tak's 'em all at once, an' o'. All th' 
 haase is down wi' it at Sam Coupe's, an' there's 
 nine on 'em when yo' reckon 'em up,' continued 
 Tic-tak. 
 
 ' It's that as follows it aw'm flayed on,' 
 commented Elijah. ' Newmony (pneumonia), 
 durnd they co' it ? It mak's terrible quick work 
 wi' 'em. Aw yer th' doctor's daan wi' it.' 
 
 ' An' th' parson.' 
 
 * Yi ; an' Maister Frank up at th' Hall.' 
 
 ' It fairly laughs at larnin' an' brass, doesn'd it.'*' 
 
 * Ey .'*' interrogated Iron-ears. 
 
 ' Aw say it fairly laughs at larnin' and 
 brass.' 
 
 * Who laughs at larnin' and brass ?' interro- 
 gated the deaf man.
 
 Taking down the Sign. 341 
 
 * Why, the influenza, forshure — it as we're 
 talkin' abaat.' 
 
 ' It's no respecter o' persons,' said Iron-ears, 
 with the solemnity of fear in his tones. * They 
 con keep th' fayver daan i' th' village, and 
 rheumatis to them as geets wet an' cornd dry 
 theirsel's — but this mak' axes noabry.' 
 
 * Doesto think it's a visitation, 'Lijah ?' asked 
 Tic-tak. 
 
 ' Ey, lad, aw gien o'er talkin' abaat visitations 
 sin' aar little Sam'l were lamed.' 
 
 * Well, aw suppose we mun all dee sometime, 
 but aw'd rayther dee i' a gradely feshion nor as 
 th' folks is deein' all raand.' 
 
 ' What do yo' call a gradely feshion, Iron-ears.'*' 
 asked Tic-tak. 
 
 ' Why, aw could like to tak' mi time o'er 
 it, and tak' it yesy (easy), like. Nod be i' a 
 hurry o'er th' job, thaa knows.' 
 
 ' Yi ; aw know what thaa means.* 
 
 ' But aw suppose th' owd leveller '11 go his 
 own gate.' 
 
 ' It fair mak's me flayed to see so mony berry- 
 in's. There were seven yesterdo, and there's 
 baan to be five to-day,' said Elijah.
 
 342 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 ' Didto yer o'er owd Naybour deein', and 
 what he said to th' misses?' 
 
 * Nay, aw never yerd.' 
 
 ' Why, just afore he deed he said, " Misses, 
 aw want thee to mak' me a promise." " What 
 is it?" hoo said. " Wilto mak' it?" says he. 
 " Not afore aw yer it," hoo said. Then th' owd 
 chap turned hissel' o'er, an' sobbed, " It's 
 nobbud this : wilto see there's currant brade an' 
 slow walkin' at mi berryin'?" Then hoo said so 
 mony folks were deein' as there'd be no time 
 for slow walkin', but hoo promised to bake a 
 bit o' currant brade for th' owd chap, an' hoo 
 did.' 
 
 ' Yi, they'd a gradely funeral tay for him, 
 an' o', an' he desarved it. He wor a daycent 
 felley, were Naybour.' 
 
 ' He wor, 'Lijah ; we could do wi' a two- 
 three more o' th' same breed.' 
 
 ' Aw'll tell yo' whad, lads, aw'se nod be 
 so long after him,' said Elijah. *Aw'm noan 
 well. Aw feel as though aw'd getten a dogger's 
 shop i' mi yed, an' some hommerin' an' o'.' 
 And he pressed his hand to his forehead and 
 paused in his work.
 
 Taking down the Sign. 343 
 
 * Thaa'll pool raand, 'Lijah, if thaa has getten 
 it. Thaa mun keep up, thaa knows, lad. A 
 good sperit is half th' battle when yo're ill.' 
 
 Elijah toiled on at his clog, but under the 
 thraldom of a great weariness. There was a 
 burning sensation at his throat as though a 
 heated wire was being drawn down it, and the 
 hammering in his forehead became incessant. 
 Suddenly a chill would seize him, and now and 
 again so severe would be the pain in his back 
 that more than once he thought he was run 
 through with a knife. At one moment he felt 
 the shop a furnace, so hot was he ; then the 
 temperature seemed suddenly to fall, and he 
 was seized with rigours. 
 
 'Aw'se be like to give up to it, lads,' said 
 Elijah. Then he took the clog from his knee, 
 and, looking at it fondly, continued : ' Nay, 
 but aw'U finish thee to-neet. Thaa's badly 
 wanted, an' aw promised thee ;' and, so saying, 
 he returned to his toil. 
 
 Iron-ears and Tic-tak remained in the shop, 
 occasionally speaking in monosyllables, but for 
 the most part silent. 
 
 Two hands were busy — the hand of the
 
 344 T"^^ Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 craftsman and the hand of the destroyer. One 
 hand was tired, and fast losing its cunning ; the 
 other was wielded by one who fiinted not, nor 
 grew weary. Feebler and fewer came the 
 blows of the former, while those of disease 
 fell faster and with more fatal force. Doing 
 and undoing ran side by side, but the odds were 
 in favour of the foe. Iron, wood and leather 
 were in the shaping, flesh and blood were falling 
 a prey to death. Bravely Elijah fought with 
 the over-mastering plague, and the watchers 
 were illiterate men. 
 
 ' Put th' clog daan, lad, an' go whom.' 
 
 ' Yi ; we'll see thee across to th' owd woman,' 
 said Tic-tak, with a huskiness in his throat, 
 
 ' Aw've never left a job unfinished yet, lads, 
 an' aw'm noan baan to.' But the hand grew 
 more unsteady, and once or twice there were 
 slips in the use of the tools. 
 
 * Aw see thaa'll dee gam', 'Lijah,' said Iron- 
 ears. 
 
 ' Better nor deein' soft, isn't it .? But aw'll 
 soon hav' it finished naa.' 
 
 In a little while the clog lay on the work- 
 man's knee, completed. Then he took it up in
 
 Taking down the Sign. 345 
 
 his hand, rubbing it carefully with his apron, 
 and eyeing it with pride. Satisfied with the in- 
 spection, he placed it on the counter, and, turn- 
 ing to the two bystanders, said : 
 
 ' There, naa, it's done ; aw con go whom i' 
 peace. It's th' last clog as aw shall ever sweat 
 o'er, an' it's noan as well finished as aw could 
 ha' liked it to be. But aw'm nod ashamed on't. 
 'Lijah Holt never made a poor clog, lads ; 
 choose what else he's done, he's kept folk fro' 
 being witcherd (wetshod). Tic-tak, put aat th' 
 leet and bring th' key wi' thee across whom.' 
 
 But Elijah could not rise from his stool, and 
 before the men lowered the light they carried 
 him over to his house a smitten man. 
 
 The doctor stood by the window, and, draw- 
 ing aside the curtain, scanned with a careful 
 eye the clinical thermometer which he held up 
 steadily to the light. 
 
 ' One hundred and five,' said he sotto voce. 
 * Humph ! and a falling pulse. It's U P.' 
 
 ' Didto speyk, doctor.''' asked Asenath in an 
 anxious manner, 
 
 ' No,' was the cool reply. 
 
 44
 
 346 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 There was a drawn expression on the flushed 
 face of the sick man, and painfully-drawn breaths 
 contracted his chest. His fingers ceaselessly 
 played on the folds of the sheet, and but brief 
 moments of lucidity gleamed like rifts in a 
 sombre and stormy day of clouds. 
 
 ' Fumblin' th' bed-clothes is a bad sign, 
 doctor. Aw never knew ony as did it as ever 
 geet aat o' bed agen. It's th' beginnin' o' th' 
 end, yo' know. They've getten into th' dark, 
 an' beginnin' to feel their way like.' 
 
 ' I wish that were the only bad symptom,' 
 said the doctor, ' It's the rising temperature 
 and the falling pulse I don't like.' 
 
 ' What's them, doctor .?' 
 
 ' Why, you see, the fever is increasing, and 
 the heart's action is failing. That must alter 
 soon, or ' 
 
 * He'll die .?' 
 
 'Yes, that is the conclusion.' 
 
 This conversation was carried on at the top 
 of the stairway leading down from the chamber 
 in which Elijah was muttering in semi-delirium. 
 As soon as it was over, and the man of science 
 had gone, Asenath came up to her husband,
 
 Taking down the Sign. 347 
 
 and, like one of old, laid her hands on him, but 
 no healing came from the touch. 
 
 "Lijahr 
 
 The voice recalled him, and he opened his 
 eyes, and for a moment the fire of fever gave 
 way before the fire of old affection and love. 
 
 'Is it 'Senath?' he asked. 
 
 ' Yi. Thaa'rt nobbud poorly, lad ; wouldta 
 like onybody to mak' a prayer o'er thee ?' 
 
 ' What mun they pray o'er me for ? Aw've 
 no jobs 'at want sattlin' as aw know on. Aw 
 towd thee forty year sin' 'at when aw come to 
 dee there wor two chaps as aw shouldn't want 
 i' th' gate, an' them's th' parson an' th' lawyer.' 
 
 The woman recalled Elijah's long past ex- 
 pression, and knew in her heart that he had so 
 lived as to need neither. 
 
 ' Wouldta like me to send for owd Enos ? 
 Aw could like thee to see him.' 
 
 ' Then send for him, lass, if it's thi plezer.' 
 
 The sick man relapsed into the maze and 
 confusion that peopled his brain, and wandered, 
 lost amid the fever's fancies, while broken sen- 
 tences incoherent and strange fell from his lips : 
 
 ' Noabry were ever witcherd wi' mi clogs. . . .
 
 348 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 Aw were awlus more pertic'lar abaat keepin' folk 
 feet dry nor pocketin' their brass. . . . If aw 
 could do naught else, aw could mak' a clog. . . . 
 Aw could never mak' a prayer as owd Enos 
 could, but aw could mak' a clog — aw could, 
 forshure.' 
 
 Then a fitful slumber passed over him, and 
 he closed his eyes. Asenath grew more hopeful, 
 but it was short-lived. In a few minutes the 
 rambling recommenced : 
 
 ' Aw finished off th' cloQr. . . . Stan' aat o' mi 
 leet, Iron-ears. Thaa could awlus be deaf when 
 it suited thi. . . . And thee, Tic-tak, what hasto 
 fresh ? Aw'll tell thee what, it's gettin' dark. 
 Leet up, owd lad.' 
 
 Enos now entered the room, bent with age, 
 his face radiant with what, in the language of his 
 sect, he called his 'living hope.' 
 
 Walking up to the sick man, and taking his 
 hand, he said : 
 
 ' 'Lijah, is it well wi' thi soul.'*' 
 
 Elijah looked at him. Then asked : 
 
 ' Has them clogs goan to Molly Green- 
 wood's.?' 
 
 ' It's time thaa left clogs alone, lad, naa thaa's
 
 Taking down the Sign. 349 
 
 come to th' valley. They durnd want shoon, 
 thaa knows, where thaa's baan.' 
 
 There was a lucid moment, and Elijah turned 
 towards Enos. 
 
 ' Sithee, aw'se look after mi bisness as long as 
 aw con. Them's fittest for th' next world as 
 does their duty best i' this. Has them clogs 
 goan to Molly Greenwood's.^ Doesto yer, 
 Asenath .?' 
 
 ' Hooisht, 'Lijah,' said the woman. ' Keep 
 thisel' quiet, do, that's a good lad ;' and she 
 soothed him, drawing her cool hand across the 
 hot and aching head. 
 
 ' Th' rulin' passion strong i' death, thaa sees, 
 'Senath. 'Lijah '11 noan be reight baat he con 
 shap' a clog when he gets to t'other side — aw'U 
 war'nd he won't.' 
 
 ' An' thaa'U want to do a bit o' prayin', Enos, 
 or thaa'l noan be content.' 
 
 ' There's no stanin' agen a woman's wit ; 
 leastways, there isn't agen thine, Asenath. But 
 sithee, he's openin' his een agen. What is't, 
 'Lijah.?' 
 
 Elijah raised himself in bed, and looked as 
 though intent on catching some distant sound.
 
 350 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 ' Yer thee?' said he. ' Cornd yo' yer it ?' 
 
 ' Yer what ?' asked his wife. 
 
 * Why, th' owd songster as used to sing i' th' 
 cage for httle Sam'l.' 
 
 ' Nowe, aw con yer naught. Con yo', Enos?' 
 said the now startled woman, turning to the old 
 man. 
 
 ' Nowe ; there's naught as aw yer.' 
 
 ' Yer thee ?' again cried EHjah. ' That were 
 grand ! Aw've never yerd th' bird sin' little 
 Sam'l set it off th' neet he deed. Open th' 
 window, lass, and let it in. Aw've never yerd 
 sich music afoore.' 
 
 ' He's ramblin !' whispered Enos to Asenath. 
 
 ' He's noan ramblin', lad, he's gettin his new 
 yers (ears) — th' resurrection yers, yo' know. Yo' 
 con yer th' Song o' Moses an' th' Lamb in 
 them. 'Lijah, hasn'ta one word for me.?' 
 
 ' Yer thee, lass ; it's noan th' bird naa. It's 
 aar little Sam'l ; aw con fair yer him treblin' it. 
 Its grond !' 
 
 ' What's he singin' abaat, lad?' asked Enos. 
 
 But Elijah had closed his eyes. The weary 
 hand that had shaped so many clogs lay still, 
 and the poor heart, whose inner life had been
 
 Taking down the Sign. 351 
 
 one of silent suffering, was now, for ever, at 
 rest. 
 
 With Elijah's decease the local life of the 
 village shifted to another centre, and the shop 
 became tenantless. In a little while it was 
 re-tenanted by a gay young milliner, who stripped 
 the walls and decked the windows with head- 
 gear of latest fashions in the stead of clogs, 
 ribbons and feathers taking the place of leather 
 and laces, and the merry voices of vain girls, 
 talking over finery, sounding where the elders 
 had been wont to talk in solemn tones, and 
 crack their hard and sometimes over-personal 
 jokes. 
 
 When the sign was taken down from over 
 the old shop-door the village turned out in sad 
 and sorrowful mood. Many tears were shed, 
 and by strong men, too. Dick Carpenter, the 
 joiner, who was called on to do the work, was 
 as nervous as an executioner over his first job. 
 It was with a trembling hand he reared his 
 ladder, and with an uncertain foot he climbed its 
 staves. Raising his arms to unhasp the wooden 
 shoon from its iron stays, he looked down at
 
 352 The Sign of the Wooden Shoon. 
 
 the crowd, and, with a voice thick with 
 emotion, said : 
 
 ' D n it, lads, aw cornd !' 
 
 But what he could not do a kindly gust of 
 March wind did for him, and the next moment 
 The Sign of the JVooden Shoon fell among the 
 crowd below. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 BILLING AND SONS, PRINTERS, GUILDFORD.
 
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