In The Valley Of Tophet

IN THE VALLEY OF TOPHET - I896 - CONTENTS - CHAP. 1. A VICARIOUS SACRIFICE . PACE i 11. AN UNDESIRED VICTORY . . 21 111. THE TALE OF SHADOW . 39 1V. ON THE ROAD TO PARNASSUS . 58 V. HIS EWE LAMB . 75 VI. AN ANTI-SOCIAL OFFENDER 94 VII. THE OLD ADAXI . . I20 VIII. AN AUTUXIN CROCUS . . 138 IX. hIISS RACHEL . . 164 X. THE TRAGEDY OF KINESTEAU . . . 190 XI. GEORDIES MARROW . XII. AN OLD KED RAG . - IN THE VALLEY OF TOPHET A VICARIOUS SACRIFICE - ALL the village agreed that there was something queer and unholy about Mother Gough. Her cottage with the little workshed at its side was the last along the hill, and the children, on their way to the few starved fields and naked refuse-heaps which did duty for country atnongst the pits, crossed the black road before they came to it, and hurried past with furtive glances at the grim old figure standing there, half revealed by the orange light of her furnace, as with one hand she plied the belloivs, and with the other plunged the ends of thin iron rods into the burning gleeds. It iv is a land of iron and fire-a land where nature and man seemed to have combined to make a desolation and call it wealth. Over the whole face of it lights and furnaces winked and flared. By day the columns of smoke rose blue and white and black from the plain by night they reflected the dusky glare of flames. Iron and coal and serviceable mar1 were there, lying in layers within the common bed of earth. And on the distracted surface dwelt a race of men accustomed for generations to work the coal for great towns and distant countries, and with skilled hands to beat the iron and mould the clay into every shape and use. They were certainly not a people to be alarmed at anyearthly purpose to which fire might be put, and every one knew that Mother Gough had done nothing from her girlhood but forge nails from morning to night. But still the late marketers coming home to Wenley-on-the-Hill never felt quite comfortable at the sight of the sparks flying up from her workshops chimney, and as they went by they would whistle or laugh to drown the clink of her tiny anvil, till they came to the welcome gas-lamp which marked the beginning of the long village street. And there mere stranger sounds to be heard than the beating of the anvil. At times her voice came issuing from the shed as though in vehement entreaty. It was like a stern warrior pleading for the life of some one he loved. But no one ever heard a voice that answered. Some said she was praying, but prayer of such impassioned wildness had never been known in that country. Prayer was a thing of hassocked knees and Sabbath intonation. It could not be prayer she uttered. Perhaps she only addressed her ravings to a few old fowls which roosted on the smoky rafters of the shed, and peered down out of the darkness, their glittering eyes alone visible. It might be so she was certainly mad. But more mysterious rumours were whispered up and down. Unimaginative as the people were, their early superstitions of witch and devil died but slowly. Shes carryin on with sperrits, they said and it was remembered that Mother Gough had once lived like other folk, and was a respectable widow in high rep ltef or cleanliness and sanctity, as widows surely ought to be. No one had been more regular at the New Connexion chapel, and as, with her beautiful girl at her side, she sat gazing at the preacher whilst he discoursed onatonement and vicarious sacrifice, she would have made a picture for a tract on contented and Godfearing poverty. But suddenly there was a change...