  Part 1. Tom …..... Pinder, ... Foundling. (A Story of the Holmfirth Flood.) * by D.F.E. Sykes, LL.B. * Price one penny _______________ Slaithwaite: F. Walker, Commercial and Artistic printer, Britannia Works. 2,000/2/06 Later published under the title Dorothy's Choice
The Holmfirth Flood About the author D F E Sykes was a gifted scholar, solicitor, local politician, and newspaper proprietor. He listed his own patrimony as ‘Fred o’ Ned’s o’ Ben o’ Billy’s o’ the Knowle’ a reference to Holme village above Slaithwaite in the Colne Valley. As the grandson of a clothier, his association with the woollen trade would be a valuable source of material for his novels, but also the cause of his downfall when, in 1883, he became involved in a bitter dispute between the weavers and the mill owners. When he was declared bankrupt in 1885 and no longer able to practise as a solicitor he left the area and travelled abroad to Ireland and Canada. On his return to England he struggled with alcoholism and was prosecuted by the NSPCC for child neglect. Eventually he was drawn back to Huddersfield and became an active member of the Temperance Movement. He took to researching local history and writing, at first in a local newspaper, then books such as ‘The History of Huddersfield and its Vicinity’. He also wrote four novels. It was not until the 1911 Census, after some 20 years as a writer, that he finally states his profession as ‘author’. In later life he lived with his wife, the daughter of a Lincolnshire vicar, at Ainsley House, Marsden. He died of a heart attack following an operation at Huddersfield Royal Infirmary on 5th June 1920 and was buried in the graveyard of St Bartholomew’s in Marsden. Introduction Tom Pinder, Foundling is a romance and moral tale, set in the early part of the 19th Century, to the backdrop of the Greenfield and Holme Valleys when both were a part of West Yorkshire. It deals with the life of a foundling, Victorian values, the burgeoning of the cooperative movement and the Holmfirth flood. The book was first published c.1902 and subsequently published under the title Dorothy’s Choice (A Rushing of the Waters). Sykes is one of few novelists who chose to portray the lives of common people in this period and for this reason alone it is a valuable resource as a social history. His use of the local dialect, ability to sketch interesting characters and their relationships adds greatly to its readability. CHAPTER I. THE Hanging Gate is a public-house of venerable aspect. It stands at the corner of one of four cross ways, where the road from the summit of Harrop Edge cuts the turnpike from Leeds to Manchester. It pays rates in the township of Diggle, and to Diggle it properly belongs; but the small cluster of tumble-down cottages that constitutes a very small hamlet rejoices in the name of Wakey, a name whose origin has hitherto baffled the researches of local antiquarians. The inn itself is a low, two-storied, rambling building. Its rooms are so low that a moderately tall man must dodge the oaken rafters. There is much stabling, now largely abandoned to the rats, for the pristine glory of the Hanging Gate departed with the stage coach. A long horse-trough by the side of the inn front still stands to remind the wayfarer of the days when the highway was quick with traffic, but the sign itself bears eloquent testimony of decay and fallen fortunes though it still flaunts its ancient legend on a miniature crate that rocks and creaks over the narrow doorway: “This Gate hangs well and hinders none; Refresh and pay and travel on.” But on a certain winter’s night of 183—, when this story opens, the guest more bent upon refreshing than travelling on might have pleaded good excuse. Outside, the snow lay upon field and road knee-deep, the thatches, gables, and very faces of the scattered houses of Wakey were splashed and bespattered with snow, which for days had fallen in big flakes, silent and sad as the grey leaves of latest autumn, making thick the air as with the lighting of grasshoppers. The moon in the low-hanging sky was veiled by heavy masses of dark cloud that stole across the heavens like mutes oppressed by the sombre garb of woe. Signs of life about the Wakey there seemed none, save the mellowed light that shone across the bisecting roads from the curtained lattices of the Hanging Gate. It was eight o’clock and the hand-loom weavers or mill-hands habiting the small stone-build houses that straggled from the valley up the bleak sides of Harrop Edge had gone to bed, not so much because they were weary as to save fire and light. The village smithy flanking the stables of the Hanging Gate was closed and the smith himself, big burly Jim o’ Little Hannah’s had forged his last shoe and blown the last blast from his bellows, poured his last pint down his throat in the neighbouring taproom and trudged home to his little wife and large family. The few frequenters of the tap-room had tarried till tarry they might no longer, for times were bad, money was scarce and the credit given by the best of innkeepers has its limits. Mrs. Betty Schofield, the buxom hostess of the Hanging Gate was no wise dismayed by the slackness of her custom. Rumour had it that Betty was a very warm woman. She had been some years a widow, and her husband had left her, as the gossips said, well worth picking up. Look at her as she sits in the long kitchen before a roaring fire of mingled coal, peat and logs. Below the medium height, with wavy brown hair, a soft brown eye, a dimpled chin, now inclined to the double, a full and swelling bust, a mouth not too small and smiling lips that parted only to display a perfect set of teeth—it does one good to look upon her rosy cheek.—Happy the man, you say, who shall own those ample charms and for whom shall beam the ready smile or soften the warm brown eyes. There are another two seated in the brick-tiled kitchen. Mary o’ Stuart’s commonly called Moll o’ Stute’s, and Mr. William Black. Moll shall have precedence in honour of her sex and calling, a noble calling, of a verity, for Mary was the midwife of the valley. She is scantily clad for the time of the year, yet you judge that it is not from cold that she huddles by the fireside, but rather for convenience of lighting the black clay pipe she so intently sucks, one long skinny brown arm resting on her knee, her eyes fixed upon the glowing fire that casts its flickering light upon the sharp hard-featured face. Her black hair is long and though streaked with grey is still abundant, and rebellious locks, escaped from the coil, stray over the scraggy shoulders, round which a shabby, faded, flannel shawl hangs loosely. No one knows where Moll lives, if it be not at the Hanging Gate, which, if not her home, is for Moll a sort of Poste Restante, and if not there to be always seen there she can always be heard of. Moll has less need of fixed abode than ordinary mortals. She has reached the age of fifty or more, and still bears her virgin name and owns to neither chick nor child, though there were that breathed mysterious hints of wild passages of thirty years gone bye, when Moll’s cheek was soft and rosy and her form, though tall, lacked nought of grace and suppleness. “A saucy queen,” the village grannies said, “and one that always thought herself too good for common folk; but pride had had its fall,”—a reflection that seemed to bring comfort to the toothless, hollow-cheeked beldames as they wheezed asthmatically of the scandals of a youth long fled, when Mary’s foot light upon the village green and her laugh was readiest at feast or wakes. On the opposite side of the hearth sat Mr. Black, the village Schoolmaster, a little lean man well past his meridian, his hair sparse and thin, and sparse and thin all his form and frame. He is clean shaven, but his lips are firm and his eye bright and keen. Though he has the lean and hungry look of the born conspirator, never did such a look so belie a man; for a gentler being never breathed than William Black, nor one more secure in the affection and esteem of high and low for many miles around. He was not a that country man and how or by what fate, driven by what adversity or sore mischance, he had drifted to that wild neighbourhood none presumed to know. He kept a day school for boys and girls, whose parents paid fourpence a child per week when they could afford it, and less when they couldn’t—generally less. Then on alternate week-nights he kept a night-school where strapping and ambitious youths from loom or farm or bench, whose education had been neglected in their tender youth sought painfully to learn to read and write and sum. These were known to pay as much as twopence a lesson. Mr. Black—even in those irreverent days and parts, where few even of the better sort escape a nick-name, he was always called Mr. Black,—was a bachelor, and his modest household and Mr. Black himself were ruled by a spinster sister, shrill of voice, caustic of speech, with profound contempt for her brother’s softness, but unceasing and untiring in the care of the household gods, and happiest in those “spring cleanings” that were not confined to spring. But to-night Mr. Black has fled before his sister’s voice and twirling mop, and a look of seraphic content rests upon his face as he meditatively puffs his long churchwarden and sniffs the fragrant odour of the mulled ale that simmers in the copper vessel, shaped like a candle-snuffer, or, as Mr. Black reflected, like a highly burnished dunce’s cap, and which the plump hand of Mrs. Schofield had thrust nigh to its rim in the very heart of the ruddy fire. The schoolmaster’s thin legs, clad in stout stockings of native wool, knit by Miss Black’s deft fingers, were crossed before the blaze and the grateful warmth falls upon them, the while the clogging snow slowly melts from his stout boots. “Redfearn o’ Fairbanks is late to-night,” he said at length, after a silence broken only by the click of Mrs. Schofield’s steel knitting needles. “Aye, it’s market day in Huddersfilt, yo’ know, Mr. Black, an’ th’ roads ’ll be bad to-neet. But Fairbanks ’ll win through if th’ mare dunnot fall an’ break his neck.” “Th’ mare’s nooan foaled ’at ’ll break Tom o’ Fairbank’s neck,” said Moll o’ Stuart’s, grimly. “It’s spun hemp that bides for him, if there’s a God i’ heaven.” “Whisht yo’ now, Moll, an’ quit speakin’ o’ your betters, leastwise if you canna speak respectful.” “Betters! Respectful! Quo’ she,” retorted Molly with a defiant snort, pulling hard at her filthy cuddy. “Aye betters!” snapped the landlady, or as nearly snapped as lips like hers could snap. “It’s me as says it, an’ me as ’ll stand to it. Wheer i’ all th’ parish will yo find a freer hand or a bigger heart nor Tom o’ Fairbanks? Tell me that, yo’ besom.” “Aye free enew,” said Molly curtly. Mrs. Schofield bridled indignantly. “Oh! It’s weel for yo’ to sit by mi own fireside an’ eat o’ mi bread an’ nivver so happy as when yo’re castin’ up bye-gones ’at should be dead an’ buried long sin.” “Aye, aye, let the dead past bury its dead,” put in the schoolmaster soothingly. “An’ what if Redfearn o’ Fairbanks ware a bit leet gi’en i’ his young days,” went on the irate hostess. “He’s nooan th’ first an’ he’ll nooan be th’ last. He’s nobbut human like most folk ’at ivver I heard tell on. He’s honest enough now, if he’s had to wear honest. An’ it’s weel known.....” But what was so well known that the voluble tongue of Mrs. Schofield was about to repeat it at large shall not be here set down, nor was destined that night to enlighten the company; for the outer door was opened, and a gust of keen wind laden with feathery flakes of snow whirled up the narrow passage, well nigh extinguishing the slender light of the oil lamp on the wall, and causing the great burnished metal dishes and the very warming-pan itself to sway gently on their hooks. “It’s Fairbanks, hissen,” said Mrs. Schofield “Talk o’ the de’il,” muttered the irrepressible Moll but no one heeded. Then was heard much stamping of feet in the outer passage and kicking of boot toes on the lintel of the door and not a little coughing and clearing of the throat. “Ugh! Shut the door to, man,” cried a hearty voice; “do yo’ want me to be blown into th’ back-yard?” The heavy bolt-studded door was pressed back and there strode into the room a tall well-built man. Top-booted, spurred, with riding-whip in hand, and wearing the long heavy-lapetted riding-coat of the period—a hale, hearty man fresh-complexioned, with close cropped crisping hair, the face clean shaven after the fashion of the times, a masterful man, you saw at a glance, and one who knew it. Though he was over the borderland of his fifth decade, time had neither wrinkled his ruddy face nor streaked his crisp brown hair. Behind him as he strolled into the kitchen, shambled a thick-set, saturnine, grim-visaged churl, who knew more of his master’s business and far more of his master’s secrets than the mistress of Fairbanks herself. It was Aleck, the shepherd and general factotum of Fairbanks farm, Aleck the silent, Aleck the cynic, Aleck the misogynist, against whose steeled heart successive milk-maids and servant wenches had cast in vain the darts and arrows of amorous eyes and who was spitefully averred to care only for home-brewed ale, and the sheep-dog, Pinder that now, already, was shaking the snow oft his shaggy coat preparatory to curling himself up before the fire. “Sakes alive! It’s a rough ’un, good folk,” said the master of Fairbanks, “Good night to yo’ Betty, an’ to yo’, Mr. Black. I was feart aw should miss yo’. Give me a stiff ’un o’ rum hot wi’ sugar an’ a splash o’ lemon; an’ yo’ Aleck, will’t ha’ a pint o’ mulled?” Which redolent compound Mrs. Schofield was now pouring into a capacious pitcher. “Tha knows better, mester,” was Aleck’s blunt reply. “A quart o’ ale, missis, an’ nooan too much yead on it—no fal-lals for me, mi stummack’s too wake.” This was an unusually long speech for Aleck, and he sank exhausted on a settle that ran beneath a long narrow window, whilst the dog prone upon the hearth, his jaws resting on his fore paws, feigned sleep, but blinked at times from beneath twitching eyebrows at the rugged visage of the tanned, weather-beaten herdsman. “An’ yo’ stabled th’ mare aw nivver heerd th’ stable door oppen?” queried Mrs Schofield. “Nay, I left Bess at th’ Floating Lights. She cast a shoe coming over th’ Top. So we’n walked daan an welly up to mi chin aw’ve bin more nor once—it’s th’ heaviest fall aw mind on.” “But you’re late Fairbanks,” said Mr Black. “I looked for you this hour and more. Have you had a good market?” “Aye nowt to grumble at, an’ we Aleck? Sold forty head o’ beast an’ bought thirty as fine cattle as ever yo’ clapped e’en on, eh, Aleck? An’ we’re nooan strapped yet,” he laughed, as he drew a leather pouch from an inner pocket and cast it jingling on to the table. “Here Betty, put that i’th cupboard.” “Have yo’ counted it?” asked Mrs. Schofield, handling the greasy bag gingerly. “Count be danged,” said Mr. Redfearn, “saving your presence, schoolmaster. Gi’ me another jorum. Sup up, Aleck.” Aleck supped up and silently handed his pewter to Mrs Schofield. “But it wasn’t the market that kept me so late,” went on Mr Redfearn. “There were a meeting o’ th’ free holders o’ th’ district to consider the new Reform Bill. We met i’ th’ big room at th’ George, but it all came to nowt; though Harry Brougham talked and talked fit to talk a hen an’ chickens to death. Gosh! Our Mary’s a good ’un, but she couldn’t hold a can’le to Brougham.” “Aye, did you hear Mr. Brougham?” asked Mr Black, with interest. “What manner of man is he?” “Why nowt much to look at—aw could blow him away like thistle down; more like a monkey up a stick nor owt ’at I can think on. But talk! You should hear him! But he didn’t talk my vote out o’ me for all that. King and Church for me, say I. Th’ owd ways were good enough for my father an’ my father’s father an’ aw reckon they’ll do for me.” “But he’s a marvellous man,” said Mr. Black. “Who but he could leave the Assizes at York, travel, there and back, over two hundred miles after the rising of the Court, address half-a-dozen meetings and be back next day taking his briefs—I think they call them—as fresh as new paint.” “Aye, but that wern’t Brougham,” said Redfearn. “It wer’ Owdham browies.” “Eh?” queried the schoolmaster. “Aye, Owdham browies. I had it from a sure source. Th’ other day i’ th’ Court Harry wer’ fair done an’ it wer’ getting late. ‘Won’t your ludship adjourn, now?’ He says, as mild as milk.” “‘No, sir,’ says th’ judge,‘I shall finish this case if I sit till midnight.’ Yo’ see he knew Harry only wanted to be off spoutin’ an’ th’ owd judge wer’ a Tory.” “‘Very well, my lord,’ says Harry an’ turns to his clerk, an’ in a jiffy there war a basin o’ haver-bread wi’ hot beef drippin’ poured on it an pepper an salt an’ a pint o’ old port wine stirred in, an’ Harry spooinnin’ it into him like one o’clock, slap under th’ owd Judge’s nose. Th’owd felly wer’ a bit hungry hissen, an’ th’ smell set his mouth a watterin’ an’ he jumped up an’ adjourned th’ Court, an’ if he didn’t say ‘curse yo’,’ they say he looked it. But what ails Pinder?” The sheep-dog had pricked its ears, then listened intently, then gone into the passage whining and growling. “Pinder thinks it’s time to be goin’ whom’,” said Aleck, as he followed the cur into the passage. The dog laid its nose to the bottom of the thick door; whined and began frantically to scratch at the door beneath which the snow had drifted in thin sprays. When Aleck neared the dog it leaped on him and then with looks more eloquent than speech compelled him to the door. “Ther’s summat up,” said Aleck, as he opened the door. “Bring th’ lantern, missus.” The dog bounded out, set its head to the ground and howled dismally. Aleck stooped, his big hands swept away a big mound of snow and he lifted something in his arms. “Mak’ way theer,” he cried, as nearly excited as ever Aleck had been known to be; “mak’ way; it’s a woman an’ oo’s dead, aw’m thinkin’.” He bore his burthen, almost covered with its cold winding sheet of snow, into the warm kitchen, and laid it before the fire. Mrs. Schofield had snatched a cushion from the settle and placed it under the head of the lifeless figure. The men had risen to their feet and gazed helplessly at the rigid form. They saw the fair young face, marble white and set, fair tresses, sodden through. Upon the feet were shoes of flimsy make, the heel gone from one of them. A slight cape covered a thin dress of good make and material, but far too tenuous for winter wear, and all was travel-stained and soaked through. Moll o’ Stute’s thrust the men aside. “Go whom,” she said, “yo’re nooan wanted here.” She put her hand into the woman’s bosom. “Gi’ me some brandy,” she said. It was there already, held in Mrs. Schofield’s trembling hand. A little passed the lips and gurgled down the throat. A little more and the potent spirit did its saving work. The white thin hand twitched, the eyes partly opened, then closed again as a faint sigh breathed from the pallid lips. “Put th’ warming pan i’ th’ best bed, an’ leet a fire upstairs,” commanded Moll. “I’st be wanted afore mornin’ or aw’st be capped.” “Shall Aleck fetch Dr. Garstang?” ventured Mr. Redfearn. “Garstang fiddlesticks,” snapped Moll. “This is wark for me, aw tell yo’. There’ll be one more i’ this house bi morn, and happen one less, God save us. But get you gone an’ moither me no more.” CHAPTER II. MR. Black did not sleep well that night. He had fevered visions of Alpine crevasses, of St. Bernard dogs and of fair blanched faces set in long dank tresses of clinging hair. He had had, too, before seeking his narrow pallet, a rather bad and disquieting quarter of an hour with his sister, who had demanded in acrid tones to be told what made him so late home. He was losing his character, the irate Priscilla had declared, spending every spare moment at the Hanging Gate, whose landlady everyone knew to be a designing women and openly and unblushingly “widowing.” A nice howdyedo it must be for him, a scholar, to have his name bandied about in every tap-room between Diggle and Greenfield. But she would see Mr Whitelock the vicar of St Chad’s, and perhaps her abandoned brother would take more notice of his spiritual adviser than he did of those that were his own flesh and blood so to speak. But if he meant to go on that gate, drinking and roistering and maybe even worse, she, for one, wouldn’t stand it, and nevermore would she set scrubbing brush to desk and floor or duster to chair, no not if dirt lay so thick, you could write your name in it with your finger—and so forth. Mr. Black had smiled when Mr Whitelock was mentioned, for well he knew the worthy vicar’s cob stopped without hint from rein as it reached the Hanging Gate, and no one knew better than the reverend gentleman the virtues of those comforting liquids Mrs. Schofield reserved for favoured guests. Priscilla, however, had been somewhat mollified and allowed the cauldron of her righteous wrath to simmer down, when her brother told her he had been detained by Mr. Redfearn of Fairbanks, and that she might expect a basket of butter and eggs, with maybe a collop, as a mark of friendship and esteem from Mrs. Redfearn herself. Mr. Black struggled hard with his early breakfast of porridge and milk, but it was no use. He pushed away bowl and platter and murmuring something about being back in time to open school he seized his beaver, donned frieze coat and made off to the Hanging Gate. His heart sank within him when he found the door closed though not bolted, and every window shrouded by curtain or blind. Mrs. Schofield was rocking herself in the chair and looked, as was indeed the case as if she had known no bed that night. There were marks of tears upon her, cheeks, and her glossy hair, was all awry and unkempt. “Eh, but Mr. Black,” she half sobbed, “but it’s good for sair e’en to see yo’ or any other Christian soul after such a time as aw’ve passed through this very neet that’s passed and gone. Glory be to God. And oh! Mi poor head, if it doesna crack it’s a lucky woman Betty Schofield will be. If it hadn’t been for a cup o’ tay goodness only knows but what aw’d ha’ sunk entirely, and Moll o Stute’s wi’ no more feelin’ nor a stone. But sit yo’ down, sir, an’ drink a dish o’ tea.” Now black tea in those days was 8s. a pound and a tea-drinking was almost as solemn a function as a Church sacrament. Tea was not to be lightly drunk, and indeed was reserved chiefly for funerals and christenings. The women folk of the middle classes drank it at times to mark their social status, as people now-a-days emblazon emblems of spurious heraldry on the panels of their broughams. The men held it in derision as a milksop’s beverage and swore by the virtues of hops and malt. But Mr. Black was fain to forget his manhood nor resisted over much when a certain cordial, darkly alluded to as “brown cream” and commonly supposed to mellow in the plantations of Jamaica, was added to the fragrant cup. “And the poor woman?” he asked timidly at last. “Ah! Poor woman well may yo’ call her, though mebbe now she’s richer nor any on us, for if ever misguided wench looked like a saint i’ heaven she does—an’ passed away as quiet as a lamb, at two o’clock this mornin’ just as th’ clock theer wer strikin’ th’ hour. Eh! But she’s a bonnie corpse as ever aw seed but she looks so like an angel fro’ heaven aw’m awmost feart to look at her. Yo’ll like to see her, but Fairbanks ’ll be comin’ down aw doubt na an’ yo’ll go up together.” “Did she speak, is there anything to show who or what she is?” “Not a word, not a sign, not a mark on linen or paper; but oo’s no common trollop that aw’st warrant, tho’ she had no ring on her finger.” “Maybe her straits compelled her to part with it,” suggested Mr. Black. “Weel, weel, mebbe, mebbe, tho’ it’s th’ last thing a decent woman parts wi’, that an’ her marriage-lines. But, as I said, th’ poor thing med no sign. ’Oo just oppened her sweet e’en as Moll theer laid th’ babby to her breast, an’ her poor hand tried to touch its face, an’ just th’ quiver o’ a smile fluttered on her lips, an’ then all wer’ ovver, but so quiet like, so quiet, ’twere more a flutterin’ away nor deein’. Eh! But awm thankful ’oo deed i’ my bed an’ not o’th moor buried i’ a drift”—and the tears once more trickled down Mrs. Schofield’s rounded cheek. Mr. Black took the plump left hand that rested on the widow’s lap and gently pressed it in token of the sympathy his lips could not express. Could mortal man do less? “It’s times like these a poor widow feels her lonesome state,” murmured Mrs. Schofield. Mr. Black withdrew his hand, and the grim visage of Priscilla flashed across his vision. The twain had been so absorbed that Moll o’ Stute’s had glided into the kitchen, and now was seated on her accustomed stool by the fireside. She had a soft bundle of flannel in her arms and as she sat she swayed gently to and fro murmuring, not unmusically, some crooning lullaby of the country side. “The babe?” whispered Mr. Black, and Mrs. Schofield nodded silently, and then, sinking her voice, “Moll’s got another maggot i’ her head. She thinks th’ poor lass ’ats dead an’ gone wer’ seeking Tom o’ Fairbanks. Yo’ know how daft she is when ’oo sets that way.” “Aye, give a dog a bad name and hang him. An old saying and true. We all know Fairbanks was a sad fellow in his young days, but bar a quip and maybe a stolen kiss from ready and tempting lips, he’s steady enough now”. “Aye, aye, worn honest, as they say,” acquiesced the hostess. “But here he comes. Aw med sure he’d be anxious to know the end o’ last neet’s doin’s—an’ wheer Fairbanks is Aleck’s nooan far off, nor Pinder far off Aleck.” Nor was Mrs. Schofield wrong in her surmise, Mr Redfearn came almost on tip-toe through the passage into the kitchen. The presence of death needs neither the whispered word nor the silent signal. Its hush is upon the house of mourning as the Sabbath stillness rests upon the fields. Even the phlegmatic Aleck had composed his rugged features to a more impressive rigidity than was their use, and the very dog stole to the hearth with downcast head and humid eyes. “It came to th’ worst then?” asked Mr. Redfearn, after a solemn silence. He needed no reply. “Well, well, we all mun go someday; but she wer’ o’er young an’ o’er bonnie to be so cruel o’erta’en.” “Aye it’s weel to hear you talk, Fairbanks,” broke in the irrepressible Molly, as she strained the child closer to her shrunken breast. “But there’s someb’dy ’ll ha’ to answer for this neet’s wark an’ who it is mebbe yersen can tell.” Redfearn checked a hasty retort. There were, perhaps, reasons why he must bear the lash of Molly’s tongue. “Is she i’ th’ chamber?” he asked. “Yo’d like to see her,” said Mrs Schofield. Softly, the farmer and the schoolmaster followed their guide up the narrow creaking steps that led from the passage to the best bedroom, the room of state of the Hanging Gate. Upon a large four-poster lay the lifeless form fairer and more beautiful than in life. Mrs. Schofield drew the curtain of the window and the morning light streamed upon the couch and cast a halo on the pure child-like face. The long silken hair, deftly tended, had been drawn across each shoulder and in rippling streams fell about the bosom. It was hard to think that Death was there—’t was more as though a maiden slept. The men stood by the couch side gazing reverently on the fragile form. Redfearn drew a short and gasping breath and passed his hand furtively across his eyes. “A good woman, schoolmaster, a good woman. I’d stake my life on that.” The dominie moved his head in silent assent, then with broken voice breathed low, “Let us pray,” and Mrs. Schofield flung her apron over her head as she sank upon her knees, and Redfearn and Mr. Black knelt by the bedside. ’Twas but a simple prayer that God’s mercy might have been vouchsafed to the sister who had passed away, far from her friends and home, a nameless wanderer, with none to help but the Father who had called his wandering child to the land where the wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at rest,—His own sweet home; a prayer, too, that God would raise up friends for the orphaned bairn that would never know a mother’s love nor perchance a father’s care. And as he prayed Redfearn’s hand pressed heavy on his arm and in hoarse tones the farmer muttered. “God forgive me all my sins—I’ll find the wee lad’s father, if he’s in the three Ridings, an’ if aw dunnot th’ lad shall nivver want for bite nor sup.” Then as though ashamed, he groped his way down the dingy stair-case and flung himself into the big oaken arm-chair that none ventured to dispute with him. But it was not in the nature of the man to be long oppressed by brooding thought or to abandon himself to the bitter-sweet reflections of sombre-visaged melancholy. His active, restless temperament was impatient of reflection and his practical mind turned to the present need. “Aleck, yo’ll go to Sam Sykes’s an’ order th’ coffin, an’ tell him to see about th’ grave i’ Saddleworth churchyard. Gi’ my respects to th’ vicar an’ ask him to fix all about th’ buryin’, an Sykes ’ll see about th’ undertaker. Yo’ll see th’ poor lass put away, Betty, an’ yo’ too, Moll, an’ yo’ll want a black gown, aw dessay. Well, thank God ther’s a shot i’ th’ locker yet. Give us th’ bag out o’th cupboard, Betty. It’s weel aw left it last neet, aw med ha’ known. An’ now what wi one thing an’ another awm fair done an’ yo mun bring me summat to put a bit o’ heart i’ me.” “It’s weel talkin’ o’ puttin’ folk away,” broke in Moll, in no way softened by the prospect of a new gown. “Th’ dead’s soon away wi’; but what abart th’ child here?” and Molly turned aside the flannel covering the infant face. “Dooms! Aw’d fair forgetten th’ bairn,” said Fairbank, “Let’s ha’ a look at it bi th’ winder mi eyes are none so good as they used to be.” Molly reluctantly placed the little one in the farmer’s outstretched arms and he bore it to the light. “A fine child as ivver yo’ seen,” said Mrs. Schofield. “It’s gotten my Benny’s things on, leastwise them at ’aw made for him wi’ my own fingers, but it warn’t to be, for th’ poor lad nivver breathed but once. Eh! It’s a queer warld; them as could do wi childer an’ thank the Lord for ’em cannot ha’ ’em, an’ them as sudna ha’ ’em,—they come a troopin’. It passes me altogether.” Mr. Black was casting anxious glances at the long sleeve clock, its long brass hand now marching upwards to that ninth hour of the morn that every schoolboy dreads. “I must be going,” he said. “Nay, rest you,” urged the widow. “Gi th’ childer a holiday—. Yer’ none yersen tha morn, an’ to be sure which on us is? I’ll ha’ some ham in th’ pan i’ a jiffy, an’ it’s Fairbanks fed, an yo know what that means.” “Nay, nay, tempt me not, tempt me not. Those lads o’ mine e’en now are up to their eyes in mischief. There’ll be a crooked pin in the cushion of my chair, a chalk drawing of Priscilla, none too flattering, on the map of Europe, and those of them that are not playing cots and tyes for buttons will be playing ‘Follow mi leader’ over the forms and desks. It’s much if the windows arn’t broken and there wont be a button left on some of their clothes—inveterate gamblers as though they shook a box at Brighton Spa.” Mr. Black’s tone was harsh, but there was a gleam in his eye that took away the sting of his speech. “Yo’re a good Churchman, aw know,” said Redfearn, “for yo’ do as th’ owd Book tells us—yo’ spare the rod an’ spoil the child. But we mun settle summat about th’ bairn here, an’ aw’ll be down to-neet as soon as I can get.” Mr. Black bent over the sleeping babe nestling in its nurse’s arms. “Come early,” whispered Molly, “aw’ve summat to say to yo’ partic’ler.” It was but a distracted mind the teacher gave that day to the budding genius of his school. He was lost in conjecture as to what Moll might have to say to him, and not less in surprise that she should have aught at all, for though that hard-featured damsel of the rasping tongue treated him with a deference shown to no other he could think of no subject demanding the secrecy Molly’s manner had seemed to ask. He did not fail to be early at the Hanging Gate, indeed Mrs. Schofield, her wonted serenity restored by an afternoon’s nap on the settle, had but just sided the tea-things, after that meal which is locally called a “baggin’”—(another term whose origin is shrouded in mystery) and was still in the sacred retreat upstairs, where she was accustomed to array herself as beseemeth the landlady of a thriving hostelry, with money in the bank, and that could change her condition by holding up her little finger. Molly no longer held the child in her arms. It had been transferred into the highly polished mahogany cradle, which Molly worked gently with her foot, and which also had doubtless been purchased for the use of that disappointing Benny. “Eh! Aw’m glad yo’n come,” she said eagerly, as Mr. Black removed his wraps. “Speak low, th’ missis is upstairs, an’ these rafters is like sounding boards.” She thrust her hand deep into one of those long linen pockets beneath the upper gown and that only a woman can find. “Here tak’ it,” she said, “tak’ it. It’s welly burned a hoil i’ mi pocket. Dunnot let me han’le it again or aw’ll nooan answer for missen. It’s gowd, man, gowd, aw tell yo’ an’ there’s figgerin on it i’ some mak o’ stones at glitter an’ dazzle till yo’d think the varry devil wer’ winkin’ at yo’, an whisperin’ i’ yo’r lug to keep it quiet an’ say nowt to nobody.” She placed a trinket in the schoolmaster’s hand and heaved a sigh of relief. It was a locket of gold, heart-shaped. On the one side was worked, in small diamonds, a true-lovers’ knot, on the reverse, in pearls, a monogram. A.J. The like neither dominie nor nurse had ever gazed upon before, save, perhaps, through the tantalizing barrier of a jeweller’s window in Huddersfield or Manchester, and, it is safe to say, never before had either held in hand article of so much value. “Yo’ know aw helped to put her to bed,” whispered Molly, with a motion of head towards the best bedroom, “an’ aw undressed her, an’ when th’ missis wer’ airin’ a neet-gown for th’ poor thing aw’ spied that teed round her neck wi’ a bit o’ velvet. So aw’ snipped it off, for aw seed weel enough oo’d nivver want it again. Aw’d meant to keep it till aw could mak it i’ my way to go daan to Huddersfilt; but aw stood at th’ bottom o’ th’ stairs when yo’ wer prayin’ yesterday, an’ oh, Mr. Black, it wor’ a tussle, but aw couldna keep it, aw couldna keep it after that.” Mr. Black was much moved. He took Molly’s hand in his and bowed over it. “You are a good woman Molly, and One who seeth in secret will reward you openly.” “Dunnot tell th’ misses,” urged Molly, flushing even through the tan of her hard face at a tribute seldom paid to her. “Oo’ll mebbe think aw sud ha’ gien it to her; an’ though aw’ve no patience wi’ her airs an’ her greetin’ (crying) an’ settin her cap at’s aboon her, thof poor they may be, but still oo’s reet at t’core, an awd be sorry to fa’ out wi’ her.” Mr. Black nodded, and carefully placed the locket in the pocket of his vest. “I must think over this. I don’t like secrets; but you shall go harmless. This trinket, valuable as it doubtless is of itself, may be more precious still as a clue to that poor child’s parentage and I must take counsel with Mr Redfearn.” Molly shook her head in emphatic dissent. “You wrong Fairbanks, indeed you do, Molly.” “Ah, yo’ ken, yo’ ken,” said Molly, brokenly, “who but Fairbanks ruined my young life?” “And hath he not repented and would have made amends? As you stand in need of forgiveness, Molly, learn to forgive. ’Tis a lesson we all must learn.” The entrance of Redfearn himself precluded the further discussion of a delicate and painful subject. Molly assumed with some difficulty the control of her features, but there was lacking, for a time at least, that resentful defiance and general contrariness his presence seemed generally to arouse. Drawing back into the shade of her favourite corner she devoted herself to the assiduous care of the cradle, whilst Mrs. Schofield, now resplendent in her evening finery of black silk, with massive gold brooch and long gold watch chain that reached in double folds from neck to waist, with her own fair hand decocted the soothing compound demanded by the master of Fairbanks, nor disdained to pump the humming ale that was the nectar of the attendant herdsman. “Well, Aleck, tha wer’ tellin’ me,” said Redfearn, “tha’s seen Mr. Whitelock an’ th’ sexton an’ th’ undertaker, an’ all’s arranged?” Aleck made no reply till he had lowered the pewter two-handled quart measure, and wiped his lips with the back of his hand—a good pint had disappeared, and you might have heard it gurgling down his throat like water down a bent and choked drain. He nodded his reply: then gruffly: “To-morrow, three o’clock. Th’ hearse an’ coaches here at two.” “An’ now what’s to be done about th’ little ’un?” queried the farmer. “I’ve thowt an’ thowt, an’ better thowt. An’ aw’m nooan a bit nearer. Aw thowt mebbe yo’ could tak’ care on it, till its own folk wer’ found. What ses ta, Betty?” But Mrs. Schofield shook her head. “It wouldn’t do Fairbanks, it ’ud nivver do. Aw met manage if Moll wor allus here to look after it an ’oo could give a hand i’ th’ taproom o’ Saturday neets and Sundays. But wi’ her, nivver to be depended on five minutes together, knocked up i’ th’ middle o’ th’ neet when least yo’ look for it, an’ nivver knowin’ when oo’ll be back or wheer oo’ll be next more like a gipsy or willy-wisp nor a regular lodger, an’ me a sound sleeper—yo’ can see for yorsen it ’ud nivver act.” “Why dunno yo’ offer to tak’ him to Fairbanks?” Molly could not forbear asking, with some malice. “One more or less ’ll mak’ no differ to yo’, an’ th’ lad ’ud sooin be o’ use on th’ farm.” “Not for a thousand golden guineas,” exclaimed Redfearn. “Our Mary’s th’ best o’ women; but if ’oo has a fault it’s jalousin’ about every bye-blow that’s born i’th’ village. There’s her an’ your Priscilla, schoolmaster, bin collogin’ o’er this job already, bi what aw can speer, an Mary looked sour enough to turn a field o’ red cabbage into pickles, when aw started fro’ Fairbanks to-neet. Didn’t ’oo, Aleck?” concluded Redfearn, with his usual appeal to his faithful henchman. “Oo did that,” said Aleck, starting out of a deep reverie. “Yo’ might lay it to me,” at last Aleck said, “awst nooan mind, an’ aw say Pinder ’d get used to it in a bit.” “What could yo’ do wi’ a child i’ th’ hut, you numskull?” laughed the farmer. “Well, settle it yo’r own gate—it’s all a price to me. Best chuck it i’ th’ cut an’ ha’ done wi’ it.” If a look could have blasted man, as lightning blasts the oak, never more would Aleck have herded flock on the lofty heights and stretching moors that edge Diggle valley and its rippling brook. “Out on yo’, Aleck no-name,” cried Molly, springing hotly to her feet. “Eh! But if aw could nobbut see mi way, yo’ bonnie bairn, none sud ha’ yo’ but mysen. These hands received yo’, an’ these hands sud tew for yo’, if aw worked ’em to skin an’ bone. But it canna be, my bonnie pet,”—she apostrophised the unconscious babe—“An’ Moll o’ Stute’s nooan fit to ha’ th’ rearin’ o’ such as thee, quality-born if ivver ther’ wor one.” “That reminds me,” interposed the schoolmaster, as he drew forth the locket and told its tale. “Well, aw nivver did,” gasped Mrs. Schofield, eyeing the keepsake and with some difficulty prizing it open with the point of her scissors. “Black hair an’ leet, crossed an’ knotted. Th’ leet coloured ’ll be th’ poor lass’s, silk isn’t in it for fine, an’ th’ black ’ll be th’ father’s, aw’ll be bun’.” Even Aleck could not refrain from admiration. “It’ll come in handy some day,” he predicted, “aw sudn’t wonder if it fot enough to breech th’ lad, when th’ time comes.” “Breech th’ lad, in sooth; hear him. Why, yo’ stupid, it ’ud buy twenty o’t best sheep ivver tha seed i’ pen. Our Mary’s nowt to marrow it, wi her mother’s an gret-aunt Keziah’s thrown in.” “Twenty ship!” repeated Aleck. “Weel, weel, fooils an’ ther brass is soon parted.” “But we get further off i’stead o’ nearer th’ point,” pursued the farmer. “Yo’n said nowt, Mr. Black; what’s to be done wi’ th’ child?” “Well, first and foremost we must advertise i’ th’ Leeds Mercury an’ th’ Manchester Courier, for you see we’ve nothing to guide us which way she came. It may well be sorrowing parents, perhaps a conscience-stricken lover, or indeed, perchance, a distracted husband, at this very moment is seeking far and near for the poor wanderer. What tale of wrong those sealed lips could tell we may not even surmise. But the locket and these initials may put us on the right track. Anyway it won’t cost much, and it’s our clear and bounden duty to both the living and the dead.” “It’s reet weel thowt on, Schoolmaster. See what it is to be educated. Thof aw will say aw hannot much hope. Aw onest lost a cow for three week—yo’ moind on it, Aleck?” “Three week an’ three days,” muttered the shepherd. “An’ aw ’vertised an ’vertised but nowt cam’ on it. But Pinder fan her didn’t ta, lad?” Pinder winked his dexter eye and lazily stirred his tail. “An’ if th’ advertisin’ comes to nowt, what then?” said Molly. Aye, what then! There was indeed the rub. “Mr. Black’s nooan finished yet,” said Mrs Schofield. The schoolmaster thoughtfully stirred his rum toddy with the metal crusher. “I should dearly like to take the child as my own and rear him up to follow me when I’ve closed the school door for the last time and the long vacation begins for the old dominie. I could bring the lad on in arithmetic, grammar, the use of the globes, mensuration, algebra up to quadratic equations, Latin as far as Caesar De Bello and the Greek Testament as far as Matthew,” and Mr. Black’s eyes glistened at the alluring prospect. “To be sure yo’ could, no man better,” assented Mr. Redfearn, none the less stoutly that he did not know what Mr. Black meant. “Aw’d a dog once called Caesar, but Bello’s beyond me.” “It’s to ’prentice him to th’ blacksmith, can’t ta see?” said Aleck. “Aw see, an’ a very gooid notion too.” “But I cannot take the child on, though fain I’d be to do it. You know Priscilla’s never wed. She says it’s for my sake, and doubtless she knows best. But she isn’t as young as she was, and those plaguy boys have tried her temper. I wouldn’t say it to anyone, but Priscilla is a little, just a little, mind you, tetchy, so to speak, and certain sure I am she’d neither be willing nor able to do for a helpless bairn.” “Aw see how it’ll end,” cried Molly. “Sakes alive! Farmer, missus, an’ schoolmaster all backin aat, like those folk i’ th’ Bible ’at wer’ bid to th’ weddin’, an’ nooan on ’em could come. There’s nobbut one end for yo’ an’ that’s th’ work’us, th’ big hoil o’th’ hill yonder, as weel say it as think it,” and the incensed virago bounced out of the kitchen and joined the company in the taproom in a game of “checkers” and sparing neither partner nor opponent the rasp of her biting tongue. “Yo’ could make it, easy for th’ bairn?” went on Mr. Black. “An’ th’ matron’s a motherly body wi’ childer o’ her own,” put in the hostess. “An’ we needn’t lose sight o’ th’ lad,” added Mr. Redfearn. “And I could spare an hour or two a day, when he’s big enough. I’ll make a course of study this very day. It’s the very thing. Good Molly, rem acu tetigisti, as we say in the classics.” “Exactly,” assented the farmer. “By the way, Aleck, did yo’ say owt to Mr. Whitelock about th’ chrisenin’? Aw’d welly (well-nigh) forgetten it.” “After th’ buryin’, t’ same day,” said Aleck the terse. “Yo’ll be god-mother, Betty, na’ who’ll stand godfather?” “I’ve always understood in case of a foundling it takes the finder’s name,” said Mr. Black. “That’s Aleck,” said the landlady. “Nay it wer’ Pinder theer,” protested Aleck. “The very thing,” exclaimed Mr. Redfearn, smiting the table so the glasses danced. “Tom Pinder, fit him like a glove. We’ll weet his yed i’ glasses round an’ then whom (home) and bed, say I.” Mr. Redfearn glanced at the schoolmaster, the schoolmaster at Mr. Redfearn. “You’re the chairman of the Guardians,” said the teacher mildly. “An’ th’ biggest ratepayer, worse luck,” said his crony. CHAPTER III. THE Workhouse for the Saddleworth Union is a low stone building of no great dimensions, standing on about as bleak and cold a site as could well I have been selected. It stands on the hill-side on your left hand as you walk from Diggle to Saddleworth, part of that dorsal Pennine Range we call “the back bone of Old England.” Its exterior is grim and forbidding, nor is the external promise redeemed by any extravagance of luxury inside. It is in unenviable contrast to the palatial structures modern architects design for the option of the sick and destitute. But it is healthily situated, and that counts for much. All in front as you look down the valley, are the green fields; at its rear stretch the moors on which sheep graze and lambs bleat and gamble conies sport and burrow and where the warning "Go-back, go-back” of the grouse salutes the ear as summer softens into autumn, and the purple heather hides the luscious bilberry. At the time of which I write no mill chimney belched their smoke into the air and the breezes that swept the Workhouse on every side though blowing at times with unwelcome force, were pure and sweet. The Workhouse kine yielded milk so abundantly that adulteration was never thought of; the kitchen-garden, tended by the pauper hands, was rich in its herbs and vegetables, and a small flower garden gave forth the fragrance of the hardier roses, of musk and mignonette, whilst sweet williams, forget-me-nots and stocks gave colour and variety, dear to the eye of the female paupers. It is true the wards were low, the benches hard, the light and ventilation far removed from modern notions; but in this respect they differed in no wise, or if they differed, differed for the better, from the houses of the well-to-do farmers and tradesmen of the district. Anyway there the young foundling of my story was in babyhood and boyhood tended, petted, and made much of. Consigned to the charge of an elderly pauper he had a not unkindly foster-mother. Rare, thank God, the women whose hearts do not soften to the helpless child. Tom sucked his bottle like a hero, waxing chubby and rosy, “poiting” with his legs on which the flesh lay in creases, and crowing lustily as he grew. Mr. Redfearn, it has been said, was the Chairman of the Guardians and did not conceal the interest he felt in the lad; Mr. Black, a privileged visitor everywhere for miles around, had to be restrained by the nurse from gorging his protege with lollipops. The story of his birth had spread in all those parts and lost nothing in the telling. For anything the master and matron knew the Workhouse might be entertaining, if not an angel, unawares, at least a baronet. The lad, when able to run about, was transferred to the particular care of “Workhouse Jack,” a pauper of some thirty years of age, supposed to be “not altogether there,” or as it is sometimes put, to have at least a half slate off. Jack was the messenger or Mercury of the Workhouse. He fetched the masters newspaper from the village post-office, he was entrusted with commissions to the grocer and draper by the matron, and smuggled snuff and twist and forbidden luxuries to the inmates. He knew every farm-house and every shop for miles around, and never wanted for a meal or a copper when he went his rounds. But, best of all, he knew the habits and the haunts of every bird that nested in the tree or hedge, on the greensward or, like the stone-chat, in the crevices of the long, grey dry-walling of the pastures. He knew, too, to an inch, the curvature of the field drains, their exits and their entrances. He kept surreptitiously in the old, two-stalled stable of the House a sharp-toothed ferret, which he oft-times carried in his pocket and that allowed him to handle and fondle it with quite appalling familiarity. It took Tom a long time to overcome his shrinking awe of that lithe and stealthy ferret, but he did it, and once nearly sent Mrs. Schofield into convulsions by insinuating it from his own into the capacious pocket of this steadfast friend. For I regret to say that Jack was a daily visitor at the Hanging Gate, and was doubly welcome when the little Tommy toddled, haud aquis passibus, by his side. But Jack had a seasoned head and though he called, on one pretext or another, at many an hostelry, was never overcome and had the rare good sense to inculcate sobriety on his admiring charge by many a precept if not by example. To Tom, Jack was the very incarnation of wisdom, and his very first battle was fought at the back of the Workhouse stable with another foundling who had called his guide, philosopher, and friend by no less derogatory a title than “Silly Billy.” From that encounter Tom emerged with streaming eyes and nose, but in the proud consciousness of victory. Nor was Jack’s lore confined to the creatures of the air and land. Down the mountain sides trills many a gushing stream to join the Diggle Brook, pellucid waters murmuring over the worn pebbles and larger fragments of volcanic rock that still, to this day, resist the action of the fretting air and pelting storm. Who so deft a hand as Jack at tickling the shy trout that darted among the sedges and rushes of the banks or lurked beneath leaf and boulder motionless as the stones themselves. And if the matron, when the dainty fish graced her table was not scrupulous to ask whence came this toothsome addition to the dietary approved by my lords in London town, whose business was it to interfere? Ah! It is grand upon the billowing hills to wander idly in the sweet spring-time; to mark the lark rising above its nest high in the azure sky, trilling joyous melody, to hear the lambs calling to their dams, to see the kine cropping pensive, in the meadows the sweet new blades of the greening grass; sweet is it to bask at mid-day nodding on the heather and lulled to sleep by the hum that, like distant muffled music, just falls upon the ear, and sweet too, is it as the western sun drops to its rosy curtained couch, to call the cows with their swelling udders from pasture to their byre; sweet to stand by rustic maid of rosy cheek and buxom form as, piggin betwixt her knees and head pressed on the flanks of patient and grateful beast, she strains the warm and frothy fluid to the can. Glorious, too, to hearken to the whetstone drawn by practised hand across the scythe, to bear its swish as the swathe lengthens out before the steady strokes of the mower; glorious to strew the damp, green grass upon the ground to catch the morning sun, and grander still to mount upon the load of fragrant hay and be borne triumphant with the gathered harvest of the fields. Who that has passed his early youth on the hill sides of Marsden and Diggle can ever forget the changing raptures of those early days or weary in recalling them when the brain is distraught by the turmoil of the town, and the heart turns sickening from the searing sorrows of thwarted schemes and fallen hopes. It may seem to the reader that Tom Pinder’s workhouse life was not the life depicted by the immortal genius who told the piteous tale of a pinched and bruised Oliver asking for more. But be it remembered that all masters were not and still less are not Bumbles. The Saddleworth Workhouse in the thirties of last century had few inmates. The people on the sparsely populated hill-sides were mostly hand-loom weavers; not a few of them had a patch of land, a cow, a pig, and poultry. They were as clannish as the Scotch and when age, infirmity, or affliction overtook the declining years it was counted shame even of distant kin to suffer one of their name and blood to go to the big House. The poor then were mindful of the poor, and though the pinch of want was felt in the long winter days it went hard with folk if a neighbour’s cupboard was left bare or his grate without the mountain peat. Add to this that the master and matron were good, easy-going folk; that the Guardians knew well every inmate of the House; had perchance played truant with them in their youth and been birched by the same cane, or employed them in their prime, and, to cap all, forget not that Saddleworth was an obscure Union, scarce worth the expenditure of red-tape or the visit of an inspector. Mr. Black did not forget his promise to see to Tom’s education. Almost before the child could lisp he was at him with the alphabet, and with his own hands designed alluring capital letters and emblematic animals so that to his dying day Tom never saw the letter D without thinking of a weaver’s donkey going “a-bunting,” or in other words, taking in his master’s warp. At six Tom could read big print, and at seven was set to read chapters of the Bible to the old grannies of the women’s side of the House; at eight he could do sums in Practice and was not afraid of Tare and Tret. But beyond this he stubbornly refused to budge. In vain Mr. Black wooed him to decline Rosa, a rose, or to conjugate Amo. Tom feigned indeed an interest he did not feel, but promptly forgot on one day all the Latin he had learned the day before. Mr. Black was fain to confess with a sigh that Tom was not bent by nature to a clerkly calling. “Well, he’s none the worse for that,” said Mr. Redfearn, consolingly. “Look at me, schoolmaster. I can read a newspaper, make out a bill though it’s seldom called for i’ my trade, thank the Lord, write a letter, and what more do I want? How could I tell the points of horse or beast if mi head wer’ allus running on th’ olden times an’ chokefull o’ a lot o’ gibberish, saving your presence, an’ no offence, Mr. Black, as well yo’ know. We can’t all be schoolmasters, nor yet parsons an’ as for lawyers and doctors aw’ve very little opinion o’ awther on ’em, an’ th’ less yo’ have to do wi’ ’em th’ better. Not but what a cow doctor’s a handy man to ha’ wi’in call; but th’ lawyers! Aw’ve had three trials at th’ Assizes abaat one watter-course on another. An’ lost one case an’ won two, an’ th’ two aw won cost me no more nor th’ one aw lost. No! Th’ lad’s fit for better things nor a black gown. He’s getten th’ spirit o’ a man choose wheer it comes fro’. Aw put him on Bess’s back t’other day, wi’out a saddle an’ his little legs could hardly straddle fro’ flank to flank, an’ he catched her bi th’ mane an’ med her go round th’ field like a good ’un. He rolled off into th’ hedge at th’ Bottom Intack, an’ ’steead o’ sqwawkin’ and pipin’ he swore at Bess like a trooper an’ wanted puttin’ up again. Oh! He’s a rare ’un, that he is. Larnin’s thrown away on him. It ’ud nobbut over-weight an’ handicap him, so to speak.” “I’m sorry to hear of the lad swearing,” interposed Mr. Black. “That’s Work’us Jack’s teachin’,” commented Mrs. Schofield. “It’s surprisin’ how easy th’ young ’uns ’ll pick up owt they shouldn’t know, when ther’s no brayin’ what they should know into their little heads.” “Well, well,” went on Mr. Redfearn, to get out of a sore subject, for he had recognised some of his favourite expletives in Tom’s scholeric words; “th’ point is, th’ lad’s handier wi’ his hands nor his head piece. Yo’ can tak’ a horse to th’ watter but yo’ cannot mak’ him drink. An’ talkin’ o’ watter, th’ young scoundrel gave me a turn t’ other day an’ no mistake. Yo’ know th’ dam aboon Hall’s papper-mill? Weel it’s th’ deepest dam bi a seet for miles round here. Aw’d gone up wi mi gun to see if aw could pick up a rabbit or two for th’ pot an’ theer wor Tom reight i’ th’ middle o th’ dam, throwin’ up his arms an’ goin’ dahn like a stun, and then he cam up blowin’ like a porpus. Aw’ sent th’ retriever in after ’im an’ th’ young devil, ’at aw should say so, cocked his leg over th’ dog’s back an’ med him, carry ’im to th’ bank, an’ ’im laughin’ all th’ time fit to crack his young ribs. He’d nobbud pretended to drown to fley me.” “Jack’s doing again,” said Mr. Schofield. “Well, but, what’s to be done with him?” persisted Mr Black. “Can’t you take him on to th’ farm, Fairbanks?” “‘Tisn’t good enough,” said Fairbanks. “He’s fit for better things. At best he could never be much more nor a sort of bailiff an’ they’re noan wanted about here. If we could send him out to Canada now, or Australey, theer’s no tellin’ what he med come to be. At least so they sen. But i’ th’ owd country farmin’s nowt wi’out brass, an then it’s nowt much but a carryin’ on. Nah, I’ve thowt o’ a plan. We could ’prentice th’ lad out to a manufacturer. Th’ lad’s sharp an’ ’ud sooin sam up owt there is to larn. Th’ Guardians ’ud pay th’ premium for him’ an’ nobbut a fi’ pun note or so an’ aw think aw know th’ varry man to tak’ him an’ sud do well by ’im if ther’s owt i’ religion?” “Who is it?” asked Mr. Black. “It’s Jabez Tinker, o’ th’ Wilberlee Mill, i’ Holmfirth. He’s the main man at Aenon Chapel,—a pillar they call ’im an’ preaches hissen o’ Sundays, so he suld be fit to be trusted wi’ a lad.” “I’d rather he’d ha’ bin Church,” commented Mrs. Schofield. “Aw’ve often noticed ’at those ’at put it on so mich o’ Sundays tak’ it aat o’ th’ Mondays. Devil dodgers, aw call ’em.” “There are good men among the Dissenters.” Mr Black’s spirit of fairness compelled him to testify, “though I wish they could find their way to heaven without making so much pother on earth.” The days of the Salvation Army were not as yet, and sound and salvation were not convertible terms. “There’s one gooid thing abaat it,” was the landlady’s opinion. “Holmfirth’s nobbut over th’ hill, so to speak, an’ th’ lad could come to see his old friends at Whissunday and th’ Feast, when th’ mills are lakin’.” “Aye, aye, a lot better nor them furrin’ parts,” agreed the farmer. “Owd England for me, say I.” “And I have not lost hopes of clearing up the mystery of the boy’s birth,” concluded Mr. Black. “He must stay near us.” To this time nothing had been said to Tom about his parents. He knew he had no father and no mother—that was all. He knew other lads had fathers and mothers, and how he came to be without did not concern him very much. Once, indeed, one of the village lads had jeered at him as a love-child. He did not understand what this might mean, but he had sense to perceive something offensive was meant. “What is a love-child?” he asked Mrs. Schofield one day, suddenly. “All childer’s love childer,” fenced Mrs. Schofield, but Tom was not satisfied. “What’s a love child, Jack?” he asked his bosom friend. Jack ruminated. Definition was not his forte. “It means a lad’s mother’s nooan as good as she should be.” Tom flushed hotly, and said nothing: but that night a village lad with lips much swollen slept with a raw beefsteak over his eye. The germ of thought had been sown in the youthful mind. Why was he different from other lads? Time had been when in some confused sort of fashion he had looked on Mrs. Schofield as his mother and Mr. Black as his father. “Mr. Black,” he asked one day, “where is my mother?” It was a question that the Schoolmaster had looked for at every recent visit that he courted and yet dreaded. It was on a Sunday noon as the congregation left the porch of St. Chad’s some lingering by the gateway to exchange neighbourly greeting, others sauntering with an air of unconcern to the door of the Church Inn across the way, whilst yet others still made with leaden foot to a recent grave to pay the tribute of the mourner’s tears. Tom had been with other pauper lads in the gallery, a spot of vantage screened from the verger’s eye, and where it mattered to nobody what heed you took of the service or sermon so long as you did not make too much noise. He had made haste to get outside the churchyard so that he might not miss his ever gentle friend, the schoolmaster, and now stood by the village stocks outside the graveyard wall and watched the stream of worshippers pass slowly by. Presently his hand was in the schoolmaster’s, who turned his face to the road which led past the workhouse boundaries down to his own home at Diggle. “Mr. Black, where is my mother?” The schoolmaster paused, hesitated. They had left the rough and narrow road and crossed a stile into the fields. They were on the higher ground and could plainly see the churchyard. The loiterers had gone their homeward way or drifted into the Inn to seek a solace that is supposed to be appropriate alike in the glad hours of rejoicing and the heavy time of affliction. “Your mother lies yonder,” said Mr. Black, solemnly and sadly. “Show me,” said the boy, simply. They retraced their steps and sought the ancient burial ground with it’s sunken crosses and mouldering mossy stones, and those little mounds without a name that cover the humble dead. In a distant corner Mr. Black stood with uncovered head by a small marble cross and stone slab. |
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