Читать книгу Lancashire Idylls (1898) - Marshall Mather - Страница 11

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It was a sunny afternoon in June, and old Enoch, sitting in the shade of the garden bushes, called forth sweet tones from his flute. No score was before him; that from which he played was scored on his heart. Being in that sweet mood when

‘Pleasant thoughts

Bring sad thoughts to the mind,’

he was living over again, in the melodies that he played, his chequered past. Forms moved before him to the music, and faces, long since dust, smiled at him, and held converse with him, as the plaintive notes rose and fell and died away. Winds, sweetened by their sweep over miles of ling and herbage, and spiced with the scents of the garden-flowers that like a zone of colour encircled him, kissed his lips, and stole therefrom his melodies, bearing them onwards to the haunts of the wild fowl, or letting them fall where brooklets from the hills sang their silvery songs. Along the path by which he sat, all fringed with London-pride, the leaves spread dappled shadows—a mosaic of nature fit for the tread of angels or the dance of fairy sprites. Beyond the fence that fringed the little cottage rolled great waves of upland, shimmering in the heat of the midsummer glare—that hot breathing of the earth when wooed too fiercely by her wanton paramour, the sun—while the horizon discovered lines of dreamy sweep all crowned with haze, the vestibules to other hills grander and more distant.

As the afternoon passed its golden hours, it passed them in companionship with the notes of old Enoch's flute. Oblivious to the time, oblivious to the surroundings, the musician heard not an approaching step, nor knew that a listener stood behind the garden bushes, with ear responsive to his melodies. How long he would have played, how long his listener would have remained undiscovered, it is hard to say—perhaps until the dews fell and the stars glimmered. This was not to be, however, for forth from the cottage door came his wife, who, with voice drowning the strain of the flute, cried:

‘Enoch, owd lad! dun yo' see th' parson?’

Ah, heedless Enoch! What was parson, what was wife to him? Was he not soaring far above theologies and domesticities, over continents traversed only by memory, amid ideals seen only with the eye of hope? But a woman's voice!—what is there it cannot shatter and dispel?

‘Enoch! Enoch! dun yo' yer? Doesto see th' parson?’

‘No, lass, I doan't,’ said he, taking the flute from his lips.

‘I welly think he's forgetten us this time, Enoch.’

‘Nod he, lass; he's too fond o' thi butter-cakes and moufins (muffins) to forgeet. He's some fond o' thi bakin', I con tell thaa. Didn't he say as when he geet wed he'd bring his missis to thee to larn haa to mak' bread?’

‘Yi, he did, for sure!’

‘And so he will,’ said Mr. Penrose, stepping from behind the garden bush. ‘You see your husband is right, Mrs. Ashworth. I've not forgotten it is baking-day, or that I was due at your house to tea.’

‘Theyer, Enoch, thaa sees what thi tootling on th' owd flute's done for thee,’ said the old woman, in her surprise and chagrin. ‘Thaa cornd be too careful haa thaa talks. Thaa sees trees hes yers as weel as stoan walls.’

‘Ne'er mind, Mr. Penrose; I were nobbud hevin' her on a bit. Hoo thinks a mighty lot o' parsons, I con tell yo'. Hoo's never reet but when hoo's oather listenin' to 'em or feedin' 'em,’ and the old man quietly broke into a laugh.

‘An' dun yo' know what he sez abaat parsons, Mr. Penrose? I mud as weel tell tales abaat him naa he's started tellin' tales abaat me.’

Mr. Penrose declared he had no idea what old Enoch's criticisms on the members of the cloth were, but expressed a strong desire to be made familiar with them.

‘Weel,’ continued Mrs. Ashworth, ‘he sez as he never noather flatters parsons nor women, for noather on 'em con ston' it. Naa, then, what dun yo' mak' o' that?’

‘He's very wise.’

‘What saysto?’

‘I only mean as far as the parsons are concerned. As to women—why, I suppose I must be silent.’

‘Ne'er mind, Mr. Penrose; tay's waitin', so come along. Yo' cornd bridle women folks, and it's happen as weel yo' cornd; for if they mutn't talk they'd scrat, and that 'ud be a deal wur.’

During tea Mr. Penrose apologized for hiding behind the bushes in the garden while old Enoch was playing the flute: ‘But,’ continued he, ‘the airs were so sweet that it would have been a sin to mar them by interruption.’

Upon hearing this Enoch's eye brightened, and a flush of pride mantled on his cheek. These signs were at once detected by his quick-eyed wife, who broke out in a triumphant voice:

‘An' that's him as wouldn't flatter parsons an' women, cose, as he sez, they cornd ston' it; and he's aside hissel cose yo've cracked up his playin', Mr. Penrose.’

‘All reet, owd lass,’ good-humouredly retorted Enoch, looking love through his mild blue eyes at his wife, who knew so well how to defend her own, ‘all reet; but if thaa durnd mind I'll tell Mr. Penrose abaat Dickey o' Wams.’

‘An' I'll tell him abaat Edge End “Messiah,” and thi marlock wi' th' owd piccolo.’

‘Supposing I hear both stories,’ said the minister. ‘Then I can apply both, and judge between you.’

‘Oh! there's nowt in 'em,’ replied Enoch. ‘Sometimes, thaa knows, when hoo's a bit fratchy, I plague her wi' tellin' o' Dickey o' Wams, who wor talkin' abaat his wife's tantrums, when his maisther stopped him and said, “Dickey, wherever did ta pike her up?” and he said, “Oh, 'mang a lot more lumber up Stackkirk way.” ’

As this story was told with all the dry humour of which Enoch possessed so large a share, both the old woman and Mr. Penrose crowned it with a hearty laugh, the minister turning to his hostess and saying:

‘Now, Mrs. Ashworth, it's your turn. What about the Edge End “Messiah”?’

‘Mun I tell him, Enoch?’

‘Yi, owd lass; id 'll pleeas thee, and noan hurt me. Brast (start) off.’

‘Well, yo' mun know, Mr. Penrose, they were givin' th' “Messiah” at Edge End. Eh! dear, Enoch,’ sighed the old woman, stopping short in her story, ‘it's thirty year sin' come next Kesmas.’

‘Yi, lass, it is. There's some snow fallen sin' then.’

‘There hes that, an' we've bed our share and o'. But, as I wor tellin' yo', Mr. Penrose, they wor givin' th' “Messiah” at Edge End, and bed just getten to “How beautiful are th' feet.” Naa, it wor arranged that aar Enoch mud play th' piccolo accompaniment, and he started fairly weel. Happen he wor a bit flat, for th' chapel wor very hot, an' most o' th' instruments aat o' pitch. But, as I say, he started fairly weel, when th' conductor, a chap fra Manchester, who thought he knew summat, said, “Hooisht, hooisht!” But th' owd lad stuck to his tune. Then th' conductor banged his stick on th' music, and, wi' a face as red as a soudger's coite (soldier's coat), called aat agen, “Hooisht! Doesto yer?—hooisht!” But he'd mistaan his mon, Mr. Penrose, for Enoch nobbud stopped short to say, “Thee go on with thi conductin'. If hoo'll sing I'll play.” And hoo did sing an' o'. An' Enoch welly blew his lips off wi' playin', I con tell thi. But, somehaa or other, hoo never cared to come and sing i' these parts after, and they never geet Enoch to tak' th' piccolo accompaniment agen to “How beautiful are th' feet.” ’

‘Nowe, an' they never will. I somehaa think I had summat to do wi' spoilin' th' beauty of “their feet” that neet, Mr. Penrose, though I've played in mony a oratory (oratorio) sin' then, an' mean to do agen.’

After tea Enoch took Mr. Penrose for a stroll over the moors. The sun was westering, and cool airs crept up from distant wilds, playing softly as they swept among the long grasses, and leading Enoch to say to Mr. Penrose, ‘Theer's music for yo'.’ The great hills threw miles of shadow, and masses of fleecy clouds slowly crossed the deepening blue like white galleons on a sapphire sea. Along the crests of the far-off hills mystic colours were mingling, deepening, and fading away—the tremulous drapery woven by angel hands, behind which the bridegroom of day was hiding his splendour and his strength. Soft herbage yielded to the tread, and warm stretches of peaty soil lay like bars across the green and gray and gold of what seemed to Mr. Penrose the shoreless waste of moor. On distant hills stood lone farmsteads, their little windows glowing with the lingering beams of the setting sun; the low of kine, the bay of dog, and the shout of shepherd, softened into sweetest sounds as they travelled from far along the wings of the evening wind. It was the hour when Nature rests, and when man meditates—if the soul of meditation be his.

After a silence of some minutes Enoch turned to Mr. Penrose and said:

‘Jokin' aside, Mr. Penrose, that owd flute yo' yerd me playin' this afternoon is a part o' my life. Let's sit daan i' this nook and I'll tell yo' all abaat it. Three times in mi history it's bin mi salvation. Th' first wor when I lost mi brass. We lived daan at th' Brig then, and I ran th' factory. I wor thirty-five year owd, and hed a tidy bit o' brass, when they geet me to put a twothree hunderd in a speculation. Ay, dear! I wor fool enugh not to let weel alone. I did as they wanted me. Me, and Bill Stott's faither, and owd Jerry o' th' Moss went in together heavy, and we lost every farthin'. I shall never forgeet it. It wor Sunday mornin' when th' news coome fro' th' lawyer. I wor i' bed when th' missis gav me th' letter, and I could tell by her face summat wor wrang. “What is it, lass?” I axed. “What a towd thee it would be,” hoo said. “We are ruined.” “Thaa never sez so!” I shaated. “It's paper as says so,” hoo said, “noan me,” and hoo handed me th' lawyer's letter. I tried to get aat o' bed, Mr. Penrose, but when I set mi feet on th' floor, I couldn't ston'. “I've lost my legs, missis,” I cried. “Nay, lad, thank God, thaa's getten thi legs yet; it's thi brass thaa's lost!” I shall never forgeet those days. Then came th' sale, and th' flittin', an' all th' black looks. Yo' know yor friends when th' brass goes, Mr. Penrose. Poverty's a rare hond for pikin' aat hypocrites. It maks no mistakes; it tells yo' who's who. We'd scarce a friend i' those days. I wor weeks and never held up mi yed, and noabry but th' missis to speak to. Then it wor th' owd flute coome to mi help. I'd nobbud to tak' it up, and put it to mi lips, and it ud begin to speyk. Yi, an' it cried an' o', and took my sorrow on itsel, and shifted it away fro' me. I've played o' th' neet thro' on these moors, Mr. Penrose, when I couldn't sleep i' bed, or stay i' th' haas. It's a grond thing, is music, when yo're brokken-hearted. If ever yo' marry and hev childer, teach 'em music—a chap as con play con feight th' devil so much better nor him as cornd.’

Old Enoch took his cap from his head, and wiped his brow, and continued:

‘Th' flute were my salvation agen, Mr. Penrose, when our lad deed. He wor just one-and-twenty, and he's bin dead eighteen year. Brass is nothin' when it comes to berryin' yor own, Mr. Penrose. Poverty may touch a mon's pride, but death touches his heart. When yo' see yor own go aat o' th' haas feet fermost, and yo' know it's for good an' o', there's summat taan aat o' yo' that nothin' ever maks up for at afterwards. I wor a long time afore I forgave th' Almeety for takin' aar Joe. And all the time I owed Him a grudge, and kep' on blamin' Him like; I got wurr and wurr, until I welly went mad. Then I coome across th' old flute, and it seemed to say, “I'll help thee agen.” “Nay, owd brid,” I said, “tha cornd. It's noan brass this time, it's mi lad.” And th' owd flute seemed to say, “Try me.” So I tuk it up, and put it to mi lips and blew—yi, aat of a sad heart, Mr. Penrose—but it wor reet. Th' owd flute gi' me back mi prayer—grace for grace, as yo' parsons say, whatever yo' mean by't. And as I sat on th' bench i' th' garden—same bench as yo' saw me sittin' on this afternoon—my missis coome to th' dur, and hoo said, “Enoch, what doesto think?” “Nay, lass,” I said, “I durnd know.” “Why,” hoo says, “I think as thaa's fotched aar Joe daan fro' heaven to hear thee playin'; he seems nearer to me naa nor he ever did sin' he left us.” And so, ever afterwards, Mr. Penrose, when we want to feel aar Joe near us, I just taks up th' flute and plays, and he awlus comes.’

Old Enoch paused, for his voice was thick, and with his handkerchief he wiped away the moisture from his eyes.

In another minute he continued:

‘Bud, Mr. Penrose, I'd a wurr trouble than oather o' those I've towd yo' on. A twothree year sin' I wor a reprobate. I don't know how it coom abaat, but somehaa I geet fond o' drink, and I tuk to stopping aat late, and comin' wom' rough like, and turnin' agen th' missus. They coom up to see me from Rehoboth, and owd Mr. Morell prayed wi' me; but it wor all no use. Th' devil hissel wor in me. They say, Mr. Penrose, as yo' durnd believe in a devil; that yo' co evil a principle or summat of that sort. If thaa'd bin like me thaa'd hev no doubts abaat a devil. I've felt him in me, an' I've felt him tak' howd o' me and do as he'd a mind wi' me. One day, when they'd crossed mi name off th' Rehoboth register, and th' missus were sobbin' fit to break her heart, aw coom across th' owd flute as aw were rootin' in a box for some medicine. There it lay, long forgetten. As aw seed it, tears coom in my een. Aw thought haa it bed helped mi when I lost o' mi brass, and when Joe deed, and aw tuk it up and said, “Can ta help me naa, thinksto?” An' aw put it together, and went aat on th' moors and began to play; and fro' that hour to this aw've never wanted to sup a drop o' drink. Naa, Mr. Penrose, yo' preachers talk abaat th' Cross, and it's o' reet that yo' should; but yo' cannot blame me for talkin' abaat my flute, con yo', when it's bin my salvation? And whenever awm a bit daanhearted, or hardhearted, or fratchy wi' th' missus, or plaguey wi' fo'k, aw goes to th' owd flute, and it helps me o'er th' stile. But it's gettin' lat'; let's be goin' wom'.’

Arriving at the cottage, Enoch told his wife how he had given Mr. Penrose the history of his old flute, whereupon the good woman wept and said:

‘Him and me, Mr. Penrose, has many a time supped sorrow, but th' owd flute has awlus sweetened aar cup, hesn't it, Enoch?’

‘Yi, lass, it awlus hes.’

That night, before Mr. Penrose left the moorland cottage of the Ashworths, old Enoch took up the flute tenderly, and, with a far-off look in his eyes, commenced to play a plaintive air, which the old woman told Mr. Penrose was to ‘their Joe,’ who was ‘up aboon wi' Jesus.’ And as the minister descended the brow towards his own home, the sweet, sad music continued to fall in dying strains upon his ears; and that night, and many a night afterwards, did he vex his brain to find out why redemption should be wrought out by a flute, when the creed of Rehoboth was powerless.