life in the iron-mills-第9部分

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〃I　know　Hugh　now。〃



The　white　fingers　passed　in　a　slow；　pitiful　way　over　the　dead；

worn　face。　　There　was　a　heavy　shadow　in　the　quiet　eyes。



〃Did　hur　know　where　they'll　bury　Hugh？〃　　said　Deborah　in　a

shrill　tone；　catching　her　arm。



This　had　been　the　question　hanging　on　her　lips　all　day。



〃In　t'　town…yard？　　Under　t'　mud　and　ash？　　T'　lad'll　smother；

woman！　　He　wur　born　in　t'　lane　moor；　where　t'　air　is　frick　and

strong。　　Take　hur　out；　for　God's　sake；　take　hur　out　where　t'　air

blows！〃



The　Quaker　hesitated；　but　only　for　a　moment。　　She　put　her　strong

arm　around　Deborah　and　led　her　to　the　window。



〃Thee　sees　the　hills；　friend；　over　the　river？　　Thee　sees　how　the

light　lies　warm　there；　and　the　winds　of　God　blow　all　the　day？

I　live　there；where　the　blue　smoke　is；　by　the　trees。　　Look　at

me；〃　She　turned　Deborah's　face　to　her　own；　clear　and　earnest；

〃Thee　will　believe　me？　　I　will　take　Hugh　and　bury　him　there　to…

morrow。〃



Deborah　did　not　doubt　her。　　As　the　evening　wore　on；　she　leaned

against　the　iron　bars；　looking　at　the　hills　that　rose　far　off；

through　the　thick　sodden　clouds；　like　a　bright；　unattainable

calm。　　As　she　looked；　a　shadow　of　their　solemn　repose　fell　on

her　face；　its　fierce　discontent　faded　into　a　pitiful；　humble

quiet。　　Slow；　solemn　tears　gathered　in　her　eyes：　　the　poor　weak

eyes　turned　so　hopelessly　to　the　place　where　Hugh　was　to　rest；

the　grave　heights　looking　higher　and　brighter　and　more　solemn

than　ever　before。　　The　Quaker　watched　her　keenly。　　She　came　to

her　at　last；　and　touched　her　arm。



〃When　thee　comes　back；〃　she　said；　in　a　low；　sorrowful　tone；　like

one　who　speaks　from　a　strong　heart　deeply　moved　with　remorse　or

pity；　〃thee　shall　begin　thy　life　again；there　on　the　hills。　　I

came　too　late；　but　not　for　thee；by　God's　help；　it　may　be。〃



Not　too　late。　　Three　years　after；　the　Quaker　began　her　work。　　I

end　my　story　here。　　At　evening…time　it　was　light。　　There　is　no

need　to　tire　you　with　the　long　years　of　sunshine；　and　fresh　air；

and　slow；　patient　Christ…love；　needed　to　make　healthy　and

hopeful　this　impure　body　and　soul。　　There　is　a　homely　pine

house；　on　one　of　these　hills；　whose　windows　overlook　broad；

wooded　slopes　and　clover…crimsoned　meadows；niched　into　the

very　place　where　the　light　is　warmest；　the　air　freest。　　It　is

the　Friends'　meeting…house。　　Once　a　week　they　sit　there；　in

their　grave；　earnest　way；　waiting　for　the　Spirit　of　Love　to

speak；　opening　their　simple　hearts　to　receive　His　words。　　There

is　a　woman；　old；　deformed；　who　takes　a　humble　place　among　them：

waiting　like　them：　　in　her　gray　dress；　her　worn　face；　pure　and

meek；　turned　now　and　then　to　the　sky。　　A　woman　much　loved　by

these　silent；　resfful　people；　more　silent　than　they；　more

humble；　more　loving。　　Waiting：　　with　her　eyes　turned　to　hills

higher　and　purer　than　these　on　which　she　lives；dim　and　far　off

now；　but　to　be　reached　some　day。　　There　may　be　in　her　heart　some

latent　hope　to　meet　there　the　love　denied　her　here；that　she

shall　find　him　whom　she　lost；　and　that　then　she　will　not　be　all…

unworthy。　　Who　blames　her？　　Something　is　lost　in　the　passage　of

every　soul　from　one　eternity　to　the　other；something　pure　and

beautiful；　which　might　have　been　and　was　not：　　a　hope；　a　talent；

a　love；　over　which　the　soul　mourns；　like　Esau　deprived　of　his

birthright。　　What　blame　to　the　meek　Quaker；　if　she　took　her　lost

hope　to　make　the　hills　of　heaven　more　fair？



Nothing　remains　to　tell　that　the　poor　Welsh　puddler　once　lived；

but　this　figure　of　the　mill…woman　cut　in　korl。　　I　have　it　here

in　a　corner　of　my　library。　　I　keep　it　hid　behind　a　curtain；it

is　such　a　rough；　ungainly　thing。　　Yet　there　are　about　it

touches；　grand　sweeps　of　outline；　that　show　a　master's　hand。

Sometimes；to…night；　for　instance；the　curtain　is　accidentally

drawn　back；　and　I　see　a　bare　arm　stretched　out　imploringly　in

the　darkness；　and　an　eager；　wolfish　face　watching　mine：　　a　wan；

woful　face；　through　which　the　spirit　of　the　dead　korl…cutter

looks　out；　with　its　thwarted　life；　its　mighty　hunger；　its

unfinished　work。　　Its　pale；　vague　lips　seem　to　tremble　with　a

terrible　question。　　〃Is　this　the　End？〃　　they　say；〃nothing

beyond？　　no　more？〃　　Why；　you　tell　me　you　have　seen　that　look　in

the　eyes　of　dumb　brutes；horses　dying　under　the　lash。　　I　know。



The　deep　of　the　night　is　passing　while　I　write。　　The　gas…light

wakens　from　the　shadows　here　and　there　the　objects　which　lie

scattered　through　the　room：　　only　faintly；　though；　for　they

belong　to　the　open　sunlight。　　As　I　glance　at　them；　they　each

recall　some　task　or　pleasure　of　the　coming　day。　　A　half…moulded

child's　head；　Aphrodite；　a　bough　of　forest…leaves；　music；　work；

homely　fragments；　in　which　lie　the　secrets　of　all　eternal　truth

and　beauty。　　Prophetic　all！　　Only　this　dumb；　woful　face　seems　to

belong　to　and　end　with　the　night。　　I　turn　to　look　at　it。　　Has

the　power　of　its　desperate　need　commanded　the　darkness　away？

While　the　room　is　yet　steeped　in　heavy　shadow；　a　cool；　gray

light　suddenly　touches　its　head　like　a　blessing　hand；　and　its

groping　arm　points　through　the　broken　cloud　to　the　far　East；

where；　in　the　flickering；　nebulous　crimson；　God　has　set　the

promise　of　the　Dawn。











End