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Optimal Resource Allocation With Practical Statistical
Applications and Theory 1st Edition Igor A. Ushakov
Digital Instant Download
Author(s): Igor A. Ushakov
ISBN(s): 9781118389973, 1118389972
Edition: 1
File Details: PDF, 8.38 MB
Year: 2013
Language: english
OPTIMAL RESOURCE ALLOCATION
OPTIMAL RESOURCE
ALLOCATION
With Practical Statistical
Applications and Theory

Igor A. Ushakov
Copyright © 2013 by John Wiley & Sons, Inc. All rights reserved.

Published by John Wiley & Sons, Inc., Hoboken, New Jersey.

Published simultaneously in Canada.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted

in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning,
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Ushakov, I. A. (Igor Alekseevich)

Optimal resource allocation : with practical statistical applications and theory / Igor A.
Ushakov.
pages cm
Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN 978-1-118-38997-3 (cloth)
1. Resource allocation–Statistical methods. I. Title.
T57.77.U84 2013
658.4’033–dc23
2012040258

Printed in the United States of America

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
 In memory of John D. Kettelle, Jr.,
my friend, colleague, and informal teacher
CONTENTS

Preface xi

1 BASIC MATHEMATICAL REDUNDANCY MODELS 1

1.1 Types of Models 2
1.2 Non-repairable Redundant Group with Active
Redundant Units 3
1.3 Non-repairable Redundant Group with Standby
Redundant Units 7
1.4 Repairable Redundant Group with Active
Redundant Units 10
1.5 Repairable Redundant Group with Standby
Redundant Units 13
1.6 Multi-level Systems and System Performance
Estimation 15
1.7 Brief Review of Other Types of Redundancy 16
1.8 Time Redundancy 24
1.9 Some Additional Optimization Problems 27
Chronological Bibliography of Main Monographs on
Reliability Theory (with topics on Optimization) 30

2 FORMULATION OF OPTIMAL REDUNDANCY

PROBLEMS 33
2.1 Problem Description 33

vii
viii CONTENTS

2.2 Formulation of the Optimal Redundancy

Problem with a Single Restriction 35
2.3 Formulation of Optimal Redundancy
Problems with Multiple Constraints 39
2.4 Formulation of Multi-Criteria Optimal
Redundancy Problems 43
Chronological Bibliography 45

3 METHOD OF LAGRANGE MULTIPLIERS 48

Chronological Bibliography 55

4 STEEPEST DESCENT METHOD 56

4.1 The Main Idea of SDM 56
4.2 Description of the Algorithm 57
4.3 The Stopping Rule 60
4.5 Approximate Solution 66
Chronological Bibliography 68

5 DYNAMIC PROGRAMMING 69
5.1 Bellman’s Algorithm 69
5.2 Kettelle’s Algorithm 73
Chronological Bibliography 84

6 UNIVERSAL GENERATING FUNCTIONS 85

6.1 Generating Function 85
6.2 Universal GF (U-function) 87
Chronological Bibliography 94

7 GENETIC ALGORITHMS 96
7.1 Introduction 96
CONTENTS ix

7.2 Structure of Steady-State Genetic Algorithms 100

7.3 Related Techniques 102
Chronological Bibliography 104

8 MONTE CARLO SIMULATION 107

8.1 Introductory Remarks 107
8.2 Formulation of Optimal Redundancy Problems
in Statistical Terms 108
8.3 Algorithm for Trajectory Generation 108
8.4 Description of the Idea of the Solution 111
8.5 Inverse Optimization Problem 114
8.6 Direct Optimization Problem 124
Chronological Bibliography 129

9 COMMENTS ON CALCULATION METHODS 130

9.1 Comparison of Methods 130
9.2 Sensitivity Analysis of Optimal Redundancy
Solutions 135

10 OPTIMAL REDUNDANCY WITH SEVERAL LIMITING

FACTORS 142
10.1 Method of “Weighing Costs” 142
10.2 Method of Generalized Generating Functions 146
Chronological Bibliography 149

11 OPTIMAL REDUNDANCY IN MULTISTATE SYSTEMS 150

Chronological Bibliography 170

12 CASE STUDIES 172

12.1 Spare Supply System for Worldwide
Telecommunication System Globalstar 172
x CONTENTS

12.2 Optimal Capacity Distribution of

Telecommunication Backbone Network
Resources 179
12.3 Optimal Spare Allocation for Mobile
Repair Station 183
Chronological Bibliography 190

13 COUNTER-TERRORISM: PROTECTION RESOURCES

ALLOCATION 191
13.1 Introduction 191
13.2 Written Description of the Problem 192
13.3 Evaluation of Expected Loss 195
13.4 Algorithm of Resource Allocation 197
13.5 Branching System Protection 201
13.6 Fictional Case Study 210
13.7 Measures of Defense, Their Effectiveness,
and Related Expenses 217
13.8 Antiterrorism Resource Allocation under
Fuzzy Subjective Estimates 223
13.9 Conclusion 232
Chronological Bibliography 232

About the author 235

Index 237
PREFACE

Optimal resource allocation is an extremely important part of many

human activities, including reliability engineering. One of the first
problems that arose in this engineering area was optimal allocation
of spare units. Then it came to optimization of networks of various
natures (communication, transportation, energy transmission, etc.)
and now it is an important part of counter-terrorism protection.
Actually, these questions have always stood and still stand:
How can one achieve maximum gain with limited expenses? How
can one fulfill requirements with minimum expenses?
In this book is an overview of different approaches of optimal
resource allocation, from classical LaGrange methods to modern
heuristic algorithms.
This book is not a tutorial in the common sense of the word. It
is not a reliability “cookbook.” It is more a bridge between reli-
ability engineering and applied mathematics in the field of optimal
allocation of resources for systems’ reliability increase. It supplies
the reader with basic knowledge in optimization theory and pres-
ents examples of application of the corresponding mathematical
methods to real world problems. The book’s objective is to inspire
the reader to visit the wonderful area of applied methods of opti-
mization, rather than to give him or her a mathematical course on
optimization.
Examples with sometimes tedious and bulky numerical calcu-
lations should not frighten the reader. They are given with the sole

xi
xii PREFACE

purpose of demonstrating “a kitchen” of calculations. All these

calculations have to be performed by a computer. Optimization
programs themselves are simple enough. (For instance, all numeri-
cal examples were performed with the help a simple program in
MS Office Excel.) At the very end of the book there is a complete
enough list of monographs on the topic.
Who are potential readers of the book? First of all, engineers
who design complex systems and mathematicians who are involved
in “mathematical support” of engineering projects. Another wide
category is college and university students, especially before they
take classes on optimization theory. Last, university professors
could use the material in the book, taking numerical examples and
case studies for illustration of the methods they are teaching.
In conclusion, I would like to say a few words about references
at the end of chapters. Each of them is not a list of references, but
rather a bibliography presented in a chronological order. The
author ’s belief is that such a list will allow the reader to trace
the evolution of the considered topic. The lists, of course, are
not full, for which the author apologizes in advance. However,
as Kozma Prutkov (a pseudonym for a group of satirists at
the end of the 19th century) said: “Nobody can embrace the
unembraceable.”
I would like to express my deep gratitude to my friend and
colleague Dr. Gregory Levitin, who supplied me with materials on
genetic algorithms and optimal redundancy in multi-state systems.
I also would like to thank my friend Dr. Simon Teplitsky for
scrupulously reading the draft of the book and giving a number of
useful comments.
This book is in memory of my friend and colleague Dr. John D.
Kettelle, a former mariner who fought in WWII and later made a
significant input in dynamic programming. His name was known
to me in the late 1960s when I was a young engineer in the former
Soviet Union. I had been working at one of the R&D institutes of
PREFACE xiii

the Soviet military–industrial establishment; my duty was project-

ing spare stocks for large scale military systems.
I met Dr. J. Kettelle in person in the early 1990s when I came
to the United States as Distinguished Visiting Professor at The
George Washington University. After two years at the university,
I was invited by John to work at Ketron, Inc., the company that he
established and led. We became friends.
I will remember John forever.

IGOR A. USHAKOV

San Diego, California

 CHAPTER 1

BASIC MATHEMATICAL
REDUNDANCY MODELS

A series system of independent subsystems is usually considered

as a starting point for optimal redundancy problems. The most
common case is when one considers a group of redundant units as
a subsystem. The reliability objective function of a series system is
usually expressed as a product of probabilities of successful opera-
tion of its subsystems. The cost objective function is usually assumed
as a linear function of the number of system’s units.
There are also more complex models (multi-purpose systems
and multi-constraint problems) or more complex objective func-
tions, such as average performance or the mean time to failure.
However, we don’t limit ourselves to pure reliability models. The
reader will find a number of examples with various networks as
well as examples of resource allocation in counter-terrorism
protection.
In this book we consider main practical cases, describe
various methods of solutions of optimal redundancy problems, and

Optimal Resource Allocation: With Practical Statistical Applications and Theory,

First Edition. Igor A. Ushakov.
© 2013 John Wiley & Sons, Inc. Published 2013 by John Wiley & Sons, Inc.

1
2 BASIC MATHEMATICAL REDUNDANCY MODELS

demonstrate solving the problems with numerical examples.

Finally, several case studies are presented that reflect the author ’s
personal experience and can demonstrate practical applications of
methodology.

1.1 TYPES OF MODELS

A number of mathematical models of systems with redundancy

have been developed during the roughly half a century of modern
reliability theory. Some of these models are rather specific and some
of them are even “extravagant.” We limit ourselves in this discus-
sion to the main types of redundancy and demonstrate on them
how methods of optimal redundancy can be applied to solutions of
the optimal resource allocation. Redundancy in general is a wide
concept, however, we mainly will consider the use of a redundant
unit to provide (or increase) system reliability.
Let us call a set of operating and redundant units of the same
type a redundant group. Redundant units within a redundant group
can be in one of two states: active (in the same regime as operating
units, i.e., so-called hot redundancy) and standby (idle redundant
units waiting to replace failed units, i.e. so-called cold redundancy).
In both cases there are two possible situations: failed units could
be repaired and returned to the redundant group or unit failures
lead to exhaustion of the redundancy.
In accordance with such very rough classifications of redun-
dancy methods, this chapter structure will be arranged as pre-
sented in Table 1.1.
We consider two main reliability indices: probability of failure-
free operation during some required fixed time t0, R(t0), and mean
time to failure, T. In practice, we often deal with a system consisting
of a serial connection of redundant groups (see Fig. 1.1). Usually,
such kinds of structures are found in systems with spare stocks
with periodical replenishment.
NON-REPAIRABLE REDUNDANT GROUP 3

TABLE 1.1 Types of Redundancy

1. Redundant units regime
Active Standby
2. Type of maintenance Non-repairable Section 1.1 Section 1.2
Repairable Section 1.3 Section 1.4

FIGURE 1.1 General block diagram of series connection of redundant

groups.

FIGURE 1.2 Block diagram of a duplicated system.

1.2 NON-REPAIRABLE REDUNDANT GROUP

WITH ACTIVE REDUNDANT UNITS

Let us begin with a simplest redundant group of two units (dupli-

cation), as in Figure 1.2.
Such a system operates successfully if at least one unit is operat-
ing. If one denotes random time to failure of unit k by ξk, then the
system time to failure, ξ, could be written as

ξ = max{ξ1, ξ2 }. (1.1)

The time diagram in Figure 1.3 explains Equation (1.1).

4 BASIC MATHEMATICAL REDUNDANCY MODELS

Units

x1
1

x2
2
t
System
failure
FIGURE 1.3 Time diagram for a non-repairable duplicated system with
both units active.

The probability of failure-free operation (PFFO) during time t

for this system is equal to

R(t) = 1 − [1 − r(t)]2 , (1.2)

where r(t) is PFFO of a single active unit.

We will assume an exponential distribution of time to failure
for an active unit:

F(t) = exp(− λ t). (1.3)

In this case the mean time to failure (MTTF), T, is equal to:

∞

T = E{ξ} = E{max(ξ1, ξ2 )} = R(t)dt ∫

0
∞
(1.4)
1
0
∫
= 1 − [1 − exp(λ t)]2 dt = (1 + 0.5) ⋅ .
λ

Now consider a group of n redundant units that survives if at

least one unit is operating (Fig. 1.4).
NON-REPAIRABLE REDUNDANT GROUP 5

FIGURE 1.4 Block diagram of redundant group of n active units.

FIGURE 1.5 Block diagram of a “2 out of 3” structure with active redun-

dant unit.

We omit further detailed explanations that could be found in

any textbook on reliability (see Bibliography to Chapter 1).
For this case PFFO is equal:

R(t) = 1 − [1 − r(t)]n , (1.5)

and the mean time to failure (under assumption of the exponential

failure distribution) is

∑ k.
1
T= (1.6)
1≤ k ≤ n

The most practical system of interest is the so-called k out of n

structure. In this case, the system consists of n active units in total.
The system is deemed to be operating successfully if k or more units
have not failed (sometimes this type of redundancy is called “float-
ing”). The simplest system frequently found in engineering prac-
tice is a “2 out of 3” structure (see Fig. 1.5).
6 BASIC MATHEMATICAL REDUNDANCY MODELS

FIGURE 1.6 Block diagram of a “k out of n” structure with active redun-

dant units.

A block diagram for general case can be presented in the fol-

lowing conditional way. It is assumed that any redundant unit can
immediately operate instead of any of k “main” units in case a
failure.
Redundancy of this type can be found in multi-channel systems,
for instance, in base stations of various telecommunication networks:
transmitter or receiver modules form a redundant group that includes
operating units as well as a pool of active redundant units.
Such a system is operating until at least k of its units are operat-
ing (i.e., less than n − k + 1 failures have occurred). Thus, PFFO in
this case is

⎛ n⎞
R(t) = ∑ ⎜⎝ j ⎟⎠ [ p(t)] [1 − p(t)]
k ≤ j≤ n
j n− j
(1.7)

and

j
∑
1
T= . (1.8)
λ k ≤ j≤ n n

If a system is highly reliable, sometimes it is more reasonable

to use Equation (1.7) in supplementary form (especially for approx-
imate calculations when p(t) is close to 1).
NON-REPAIRABLE REDUNDANT GROUP 7

⎛ n⎞ ⎛ n ⎞
R(t) = 1 − ∑
n − k + 1≤ j ≤ n
⎜⎝ j ⎟⎠ [1 − p(t)] [ p(t)] ≈ 1 − ⎜⎝ n − k + 1⎟⎠ [1 − p(t)]
j n− j n− k +1
.

(1.9)

1.3 NON-REPAIRABLE REDUNDANT GROUP

WITH STANDBY REDUNDANT UNITS

Again, begin with a duplicated system presented in Figure 1.7. For

this type of system, the random time to failure is equal to:

ξ = ξ1 + ξ2. (1.10)

The time diagram in Figure 1.8 explains Equation (1.10). The

PFFO of a considered duplicate system can be written in the form:

R(t) = p0 (t) + p1 (t), (1.11)

FIGURE 1.7 A non-repairable duplicated system with a standby redun-

dant unit. (Here gray color denotes a standby unit.)

Operating x1 x2
position

t
System
failure
FIGURE 1.8 Time diagram for a non-repairable duplicated system with a
standby redundant unit.
Other documents randomly have
different content
The Project Gutenberg eBook of Tom Pinder,
Foundling: A Story of the Holmfirth Flood
This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States
and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no
restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it
under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this
ebook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the
United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where
you are located before using this eBook.

Title: Tom Pinder, Foundling: A Story of the Holmfirth Flood

Author: D. F. E. Sykes

Release date: February 6, 2017 [eBook #54121]

Most recently updated: January 24, 2021

Language: English

Credits: Produced by John Parkinson

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TOM PINDER,

FOUNDLING: A STORY OF THE HOLMFIRTH FLOOD ***
 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

 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.
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