Читать книгу Tom Pinder, Foundling - D. F. E. Sykes - Страница 7

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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.