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 Series in
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Vol. 11

TOWARDS A MATHEMATICAL THEORY OF

COMPLEX BIOLOGICAL SYSTEMS

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Vol. 11: Towards a Mathematical Theory of Complex Biological Systems

C. Bianca and N. Bellomo

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 Series in
Mathematical Biology
and Medicine
Vol. 11

TOWARDS A MATHEMATICAL THEORY OF

COMPLEX BIOLOGICAL SYSTEMS

C Bianca • N Bellomo
Politecnico di Torino, Italy

World Scientific
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Bianca, Carlo.
Towards a mathematical theory of complex biological systems / by C. Bianca and N. Bellomo.
p. cm. -- (Series in mathematical biology and medicine ; v. 11)
Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN-13: 978-981-4340-53-3 (hardcover : alk. paper)
ISBN-10: 981-4340-53-7 (hardcover : alk. paper)
1. Biomathematics. 2. Biological systems--Mathematical models. I. Bellomo, N. II. Title.
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November 30, 2010 14:23 World Scientific Book - 9in x 6in TMTCBS˙CB˙NB

Preface

This monograph focuses on the ambitious aim of developing a mathematical the-

ory of complex biological systems with special attention on the phenomena of
ageing, degeneration, and repair of biological tissues under individual self-repair
actions that may also take advantage of medical actions and therapies. The im-
mune system plays an essential role in the competition against pathologies. Of
course, the authors do not naively claim that such objective is effectively achieved.
Simply some perspective ideas, and some preliminary steps, are brought to the at-
tention of applied mathematicians.
The approach to the mathematical modeling of biological systems needs to
tackle the additional difficulty generated by the peculiarity features of living mat-
ter. For instance the lack of invariance principles which are typical of systems
pertaining to inert matter, the ability to express a strategy for individual well-
being, heterogeneous behaviors, competition, proliferative and/or destructive ac-
tions, learning ability, evolution, and many others.
The presentation is organized in three parts with ten chapters, which have the
aim of addressing applied mathematicians to research activity in the field of mod-
eling complex biological systems viewed as living, and hence biological systems:
Part I is devoted to a phenomenological description of the aforementioned bi-
ological processes with the aim of capturing the characteristics that play a crucial
role in the modeling process. A new systems biology approach is subsequently
proposed, where the overall system is decomposed into subsystems on the basis
of the biological functions that are expressed by each subsystem.
Part II presents the mathematical tools that are designed to achieve the aims
of the monograph. These tools define a class of integro-differential equations that
offer an appropriate underlying mathematical structure that can be used to derive
models at the molecular and cellular scale. Moreover, mathematical methods to

v
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vi Towards a Mathematical Theory of Complex Biological Systems

link the dynamics from the molecular to the cellular scale, and from this to that of
tissues are studied in view of applications.
Part III deals with applications and perspectives. First, the modeling of two
case studies is presented, namely the modeling of malignant keloid formation, and
the derivation of chemotaxis models at the macroscopic scale from the underlying
description at the cellular scale. Subsequently a critical analysis is proposed to
understand how much work is still needed to achieve a mathematical theory of bi-
ological systems, and to identify the guidelines necessary to pursue this objective.
In more details, the sequential steps of the mathematical approach are as follows:
i) Modeling biological systems as a large, heterogeneous, multiscale complex sys-
tem;
ii) Integration of the concept of functional subsystems to reduce the complexity of
large living systems within the approach of systems biology;
iii) Development of the mathematical kinetic and stochastic game theory for ac-
tive particles;
iv) Modeling interactions at the molecular and cellular scale and application of the
theoretical approach to some case studies;
v) Development of a multiscale analysis and modeling from genes to tissues.
The final aim of this monograph is to provide a new conceptual background
for applied mathematicians involved in the challenging research field of mathe-
matics of living systems. The authors trust that the validity of the methodological
will not be limited to the specific cases treated in the monograph, but it will pro-
vide the background for a large variety of problems generated by the interdisci-
plinary approach of mathematics and biology.
The authors are indebted to the Partners of the Project RESOLVE of the
European Union. Their contribution to understand complex biological phenomena
and to their modeling by an interdisciplinary mathematical-biological approach
has been a precious gift.

Torino, Carlo Bianca

September 2010 Nicola Bellomo
November 30, 2010 14:23 World Scientific Book - 9in x 6in TMTCBS˙CB˙NB

Acknowledgments

The authors acknowledge the support by the European Union FP7 Health Re-
search Grant number FP7-HEALTH-F4-2008-202047-RESOLVE, the support by
the FIRB project RBID08PP3J-Metodi matematici e relativi strumenti per la mod-
ellizzazione e la simulazione della formazione di tumori, competizione con il sis-
tema immunitario, e conseguenti suggerimenti terapeutici, and the Compagnia di
SanPaolo, Torino, Italy.

vii
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Contents

Preface v

Acknowledgments vii

List of Figures xiii

List of Tables xvii

1. Looking for a Mathematical Theory of Biological Systems 1

1.1 Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1
1.2 On the Concept of Mathematical Theory . . . . . . . . . . . . . 2
1.3 Plan of the Monograph . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3

2. On the Complexity of Biological Systems 7

2.1 Ten Common Features of Living Systems . . . . . . . . . . . . 7
2.2 Some Introductory Concepts of Systems Biology . . . . . . . . 10
2.3 Reducing Complexity . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13

Immune System, Wound Healing Process, and System Biol-

ogy 15
3. The Immune System: A Phenomenological Overview 17
3.1 Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 17
3.2 Bacteria and Viruses . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18
3.3 The Immune System Components . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19
3.3.1 The Lymphatic System . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19
3.3.2 The White Blood Cells . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21

ix
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x Towards a Mathematical Theory of Complex Biological Systems

3.3.3 Antibodies and Hormones . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 24

3.4 The Immune Response . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25
3.4.1 Innate Immunity . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26
3.4.2 Adaptive Immunity . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 29
3.5 Immune System Diseases . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 32
3.6 Critical Analysis . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 35

4. Wound Healing Process and Organ Repair 37

4.1 Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 37
4.2 Genes and Mutations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 38
4.3 The Phases of Wound Healing . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 43
4.3.1 Hemostasis Phase . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 44
4.3.2 Inflammation Phase . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 47
4.3.3 Proliferation Phase . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 48
4.3.4 Maturation or Remodeling Phase . . . . . . . . . . . . 49
4.4 The Fibrosis Disease . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 50
4.5 Critical Analysis . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 54

5. From Levels of Biological Organization to System Biology 55

5.1 Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 55
5.2 From Scaling to Mathematical Structures . . . . . . . . . . . . 56
5.3 Guidelines to the Modeling Approach . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 60

Mathematical Tools 65

6. Mathematical Tools and Structures 67

6.1 Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 67
6.2 Mathematical Frameworks of the Kinetic Theory of Active Par-
ticles . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 68
6.3 Guidelines Towards Modeling at the Molecular and Cellular
Scales . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 78
6.4 Additional Analysis Looking at the Immune Competition . . . . 80
6.5 Critical Analysis . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 85

7. Multiscale Modeling: Linking Molecular, Cellular, and Tis-

sues Scales 89
7.1 Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 89
November 30, 2010 14:23 World Scientific Book - 9in x 6in TMTCBS˙CB˙NB

Contents xi

7.2 On the Phenomenological Derivation of Macroscopic Tissue

Models . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 91
7.3 Cellular-Tissue Scale Modeling of Closed Systems . . . . . . . 94
7.3.1 Asymptotic Methods for a Single Subsystem . . . . . . 95
7.3.2 Asymptotic Methods for Binary Mixtures of Subsystems 99
7.4 Cellular-Tissue Scale Modeling of Open Systems . . . . . . . . 108
7.5 On the Molecular-Cellular Scale Modeling . . . . . . . . . . . . 111
7.6 Critical Analysis . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 113

Applications and Research Perspectives 117

8. A Model for Malign Keloid Formation and Immune System Competition119
8.1 Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 119
8.2 The Mathematical Model . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 121
8.3 Simulations and Emerging Behaviors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 131
8.3.1 Sensitivity Analysis of the Progression Rate α . . . . . 132
8.3.2 Sensitivity Analysis of the Proliferation Rate βI . . . . 144
8.3.3 Sensitivity Analysis of the Initial Distributions . . . . . 147
8.4 Critical Analysis and Perspectives . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 154

9. Macroscopic Models of Chemotaxis by KTAP Asymptotic Methods 157

9.1 Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 157
9.2 Linear Turning Kernels: Relaxation Models . . . . . . . . . . . 159
9.2.1 The Case of a Single Subsystem . . . . . . . . . . . . 160
9.2.2 The Case of a Binary Mixture of Subsystems . . . . . . 162
9.3 Cellular-Tissue Scale Models of Chemotaxis . . . . . . . . . . . 163
9.3.1 Classical Keller-Segel Type Models . . . . . . . . . . . 165
9.3.2 Optimal Drift Following the Chemoattractant . . . . . . 165
9.3.3 Nonlinear Flux-Limited Model by the Mixed Scalings . 166
9.4 Critical Analysis . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 168

10. Looking Ahead 171

10.1 Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 171
10.2 Some Challenges for Applied Mathematicians and Biologists . . 172
10.3 How Far is the Mathematical Theory for Biological Systems . . 173
10.4 Closure . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 177

Appendix A Mathematical Modeling of Space and Velocity-

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xii Towards a Mathematical Theory of Complex Biological Systems

Dependent Systems 179

A.1 Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 179
A.2 Mathematical Tools for Homogeneous Activity Systems . . . . 179
A.3 Mathematical Tools for Heterogeneous Activity Systems . . . . 182

Glossary 187
Bibliography 195
Index 205
November 30, 2010 14:23 World Scientific Book - 9in x 6in TMTCBS˙CB˙NB

List of Figures

2.1 A representation of the process of differentiation. . . . . . . . . . . . 10

3.1 The recognition process of the adaptive immune system: Under

antigenic stimulus, B-lymphocytes interact with macrophages and
T helper cells, and proliferate, differentiate into antibody-secreting
plasma cells. The plasma cells synthesize large amounts of im-
munoglobulins (antibodies) which will react stereochemically with
the stimulating antigen. The secreted antibody binds to the antigen
and in some way leads to its neutralization or elimination from the
body. B-lymphocytes and T-lymphocytes also develop into clones of
identical reactive cells called memory B-cells and T-cells. . . . . . . . 30

4.1 The structure of a gene and its products. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 40

4.2 The phases of cutaneous wound healing. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 45
4.3 Sequence of phases of normal wound healing. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 46

5.1 Dynamics of gene expression inside a cell. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 57

5.2 Chemical substances, attract blood vessels, with genesis of capillary
sprouts from existing vasculature to feed the tumor. . . . . . . . . . . 61

6.1 Long range interactions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 71

6.2 Destructive interactions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 71
6.3 Proliferative interactions . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 72
6.4 Interactions with transition into a new subsystem . . . . . . . . . . . 74

8.1 The time evolution of the densities of KFc (solid line) and of Mc
(dashed line) for α = 0.3. The low magnitude of the progression rate
never allows the number of Mc to overcome the number of KFc . . . 133

xiii
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xiv Towards a Mathematical Theory of Complex Biological Systems

8.2 The distribution function of the AV for α = 0.1 (top panel) and α =
0.3 (bottom panel). . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 134
8.3 The distribution function of the KFc for α = 0.1 (top panel) and α =
0.3 (bottom panel). . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 135
8.4 The distribution function of the Mc for α = 0.1 (top panel) and α =
0.3 (bottom panel). . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 136
8.5 The time evolution of the density of the ISc for α = 0.5. The ISc
proliferate before reaching a plateau. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 137
8.6 The time evolution of the densities of KFc (solid line) and of Mc
(dashed line) for α = 0.4 (top panel) and α = 0.5 (bottom panel). . . 138
8.7 The distribution function of the AV for α = 0.4 (top panel) and α =
0.5 (bottom panel). . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 139
8.8 The distribution function of the KFc for α = 0.4 (top panel) and α =
0.5 (left panel). . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 140
8.9 The distribution function of the Mc for α = 0.4 (top panel) and α =
0.5 (bottom panel). . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 141
8.10 Time evolution of the densities of the KFc (solid line) and the Mc
(dashed line) at the top panel and of the NFc (dotted line), AV (circle
line), and ISc (square line) at the bottom panel (α = 0.8). . . . . . . . 142
8.11 Distribution functions of the Mc (top panel) and AV (bottom panel)
for α = 0.8. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 143
8.12 The distribution functions of AV, KFc, and Mc at times t = 3 (top
panel) and t = 8 (bottom panel) for βI = 0. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 144
8.13 The time evolution of the number density of the ISc for βI = 0. . . . . 145
8.14 Distribution function of the NFc (top panel) and KFc (bottom panel)
for βI = 0.8. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 146
8.15 The distributions g1 (u), g10 (u), and g15 (u). . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 147
8.16 The time evolution of the number density of the KFc (solid line) and
Isc (square line) in the top panel and the distribution function of KFc
in the bottom panel when f1 (0, u) = g10 (u), f2 (0, u) = g0 (u), and
f5 (0, u) = g1 (u). . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 149
8.17 The time evolution, when f1 (0, u) = g15 (u), f2 (0, u) = g10 (u), and
f5 (0, u) = g1 (u), of the density of NFc (dotted line) and AV (circle
line) in the top panel, and of the density of the KFc (solid line) and
Mc (dashed line) in the bottom panel. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 150
8.18 The time evolution of the density of NFc (dotted line) and of the AV
(square line) for f1 (0, u) = f2 (0, u) = g10 (u) and f5 (0, u) = g15 (u). . . 151
8.19 The distribution function of the KFc (top panel) and Mc (bottom
panel) for f1 (0, u) = f2 (0, u) = g10 (u) and f5 (0, u) = g15 (u). . . . . . 152
November 30, 2010 14:23 World Scientific Book - 9in x 6in TMTCBS˙CB˙NB

List of Figures xv

8.20 The time evolution of the densities of NFc (dotted line), AV (circle
line), and ISc (square line) in the top panel, and of the KFc (solid
line) and Mc (dashed line) in the bottom panel, for f1 (0, u) = g10 (u),
f2 (0, u) = g15 (u), and f5 (0, u) = g1 (u). . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 153

9.1 From genes to tissues. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 169

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List of Tables

3.1 The fundamental differences between the innate and adaptive immune
system. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 26

8.1 Functional subsystems, interaction terms, and related parameters. . . . 130

8.2 The results of the simulations on the sensitivity analysis of the
progression rate α of the KFc (first block corresponding to α =
0.2, 0.5, 0.8), and of the proliferation rate βI of the ISc (second block
corresponding to βI = 0, 0.8). . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 155
8.3 The results of the simulations on the sensitivity analysis of the initial
number density ni (0), for i ∈ {1, 2, 5}, assuming n4 (0) = n5 (0) = 0. . 156

xvii
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Chapter 1

Looking for a Mathematical Theory of

Biological Systems

1.1 Introduction

This monograph tackles the ambitious aim of developing a mathematical theory

of biological systems focused on ageing, degeneration, and repair of biological
tissues under individual self-repair actions that may also involve advantage of
medical actions and therapies. More precisely, this chapter provides a brief de-
scription of the aims, contents and organization of the monograph, organized as
Lectures Notes. Specifically, it introduces the concept of mathematical theory of
complex biological systems and describes the sequential steps to pursue the afore-
said objective. Of course, the authors do not naively claim that such objective is
effectively achieved. Simply some perspective ideas, and some preliminary steps,
are brought to the attention of applied mathematicians.
As is known, mathematical models attempt to describe, by means of equa-
tions, the dynamics in time and space of real systems that, in the case under con-
sideration, belong to living matter. All mathematical models need to identify the
parameters that appear in the equations. Once this assessment has been prop-
erly performed, the model can be used to provide an approximate description of
a physical reality. In some special cases, the model can even depict emerging be-
haviors that are only partially shown by empirical data. Finally, it contributes to
the refinement of experiments.
The modeling of biological systems needs to tackle the additional difficulty
generated by the particular features of living matter. Among the various issues that
will be critically analyzed in the next chapter, the lack of invariance principles that
are typical of the inert matter systems. A critical analysis of this topic has been
developed in the papers [Herrero (2007)], [May (2004)], and [Reed (2004)], see
also [Hastings and Palmer (2003); Hastings et al. (2005)].
The paper by Hartwell et al. [Hartwell et al. (1999)] proposes a deep in-

1
Exploring the Variety of Random
Documents with Different Content
 So Tom and Jack turned out into the night and set forth up the
valley toward Hinchliffe Mill. Their road lay at times by the winding
serpentine course of the river, and when the watery moon glanced
downwards with bleared eye from among the clouds they could see
the swollen waters. They met scarce a soul. It was late and a’ready
the lights in the village and on the hillsides were being extinguished
in the “house” or chamber. An occasional cur sadly bayed the moon.
The swollen waters of the river rolled in their bed with sullen sob. It
was a night of dread through which the growing wind wailed amid its
tears. The gloom of the hour and scene fell upon the comrades.
Scarce a word passed between them, as with bent heads and cloaks
close drawn they made their way through the mire of the high-road
and the sloughs of known bye-paths little trod. It was hard on ten of
the night when the mill was reached. Jack kindled a fire in the office-
grate and sat beside it for a time to dry his shoon. He made a brew of
strong coffee for his master to cheer him through his task. Then Jack
in stocking-feet sought the wool-hole where he had improvised a bed
of unscoured pieces, greasy, but snug and warm, and anon his loud
breathing might be heard above the beating of the storm without.
Up to something near the weird midnight hour Tom bent over his
invoices and books, fighting against the waywardness of thoughts
that seemed intent on anything but accounts. At length he
abandoned his task half done. He felt strangely wake and alert. At all
times able to do with little sleep,—that is a feature of your mill-
worker—to-night he felt that he should woo slumber in vain.
Donning his pilot jacket that had been steaming and drying on a
chair-back before the fire, and lighting a lanthorn and taking in his
hand his stout gnarled shillelagh, bought from an Irish hay-maker
last harvest-time, he set forth alone on his usual round of the mill-
yard, leaving the outer door of the mill on the latch. His round
finished, led by what impulse, moved by that presentment he did not
stay to consider, he left the mill-yard and began to climb the hill
towards Bilberry reservoir. He walked sharply, for the night air was
biting shrewdly, and Tom was a noted walker. His long strides soon
covered the distance that lay between the mill and the reservoir
bank. Tom hummed an air to keep him company in that vast
solitude. The sky was clearer now than an hour or two before, but the
night was still dark enough to make the feeble glimmer of the
lanthorn grateful. Tom moderated his pace as he neared the
embankment. Was it worth while to climb its steep face or should he
turn his steps downhill. He could hear the water above his head
lapping against the copings of the bank. Still, as he had come so far
he might, he thought, as well walk the round of the embankment. He
was on the huge abutment that turned its breast towards the valley
the long barricade that cooped up the vast pile of water, and slowly,
the lanthorn dangling by his side and swaying in the wind, he began
to tread the path on the embankment top, slowly for in the uncertain
light, a slip might cost him a sousing, and it was no hour for a cold
bath. But, as he walked, peering ahead to pierce the gloom, and
watching carefully his steps by the lanthorn’s pale glimmer, he came,
midway in his course, upon a sight that checked him with sudden
halt, and made his heart stand still. There, at his very feet the water
was trickling over the bank, and down the outside. A thin flow,
perhaps, a couple of feet in width, had worn the upper soil, and now
a continuous stream, not a quarter of an inch in depth, was gently,
silently ebbing over the embankment. Even as Tom gazed spell-
bound, he was sensible that the opening widened, the water that
overflowed was deeper, and its escape in quicker time. A great fear
seized on Tom, a dreadful thought well-nigh crushed his brain. He
felt powerless to move. Then, with a cry, he rushed heedless along
the embankment to the culvert. Not a drop of water flowed over the
culvert’s lip. The pent giant had found an outlet for itself, and was
making for it. Tom ran back to the gap he had but just left. Even by
this faint light he saw the breach was wider, the furrow deeper. Sick
at heart, scarce realising what he did, Tom with stick and hand tried
to tear up stones, cobbles, or sods that might stem the growing
current. He spent his time and in vain. Fast as he made his tiny
barrier, the licking wavelets undermined it and washed it gently
down the embankment side; and the stream that now, oh! so silently,
so grimly wore away the surface layers, bit and gnawed into the vast
barrier and the clinging earthwork. But to Tom, with action had
come perception. Vivid as lightning’s flash the whole sequence of the
possible, nay, the seeming inevitable, was borne upon his mind. He
sprang to his feet, dashed down the embankment side. Not two
hundred yards below the reservoir some houses stood darkling in the
night, their inmates locked in sleep. With fist and stick Tom
hammered at the door, thrust his stick, his fist through the windows
of the bottom room, where oft the turn-up bed was stretched.
 “Rouse ye, rouse ye!” he cried. “The reservoir! Flee for your lives!”
Down to the Co-op Mill he dashed, racing as sure only as those do
speed who know that Death follows hard upon their heels, and ever
as he sped and passed some silent, lowly cot he paused a breathing
space to rend the midnight silence with wild, yet wilder cry, “The
flood! The flood! Haste ye, save yourselves.” He reached the gates of
his own mill, dashed to the corner where Jack still slept in dreamless
sleep. He kicked his prostrate form, he shook him, dragged him to
his feet.
“Don yo’r breeches. Here’s yo’r’ clogs. Haste, man! Bilberry’s brust.
Damn yo’ wakken. Ar’t deead?”
In that time of frenzied haste the language of his childhood came
back to his lips.
Then as Jack, half awake, bewildered, donned his nether garments
with but one idea, that Co-op Mill was on fire, Tom rushed to the
stable where their one horse was housed. He threw a halter over its
head; there was no time, no need for saddle. Jack had followed,
thrusting his arms into his coat sleeves as he came. Tom sprang to
the horse’s back. The gate still opened wide.
“Clutch mi leg, Jack, an’ stick to me an’ yell wi’ all thi might.”
Tom’s first thought had not been of Ben or his household; but
gratitude, duty alike, made them his first care. He must reach Ben at
any cost. The horse, urged by Tom’s prodding heels and by the sticks
that beat upon its flanks, galloped down the hill. Jack could not keep
pace; panting, gasping, clinging, he stumbled and fell.
“Make for Ben Garside’s,” shouted Tom, and was swallowed up in
the night, the horse’s hoof beating the rain washed road with dull
thuds, its heavy pants audible afar.
It was one o’clock and after when Tom made Ben’s cottage He
thundered at the door, and in a marvellously short time that seemed
eternity to Tom, the upper window was raised, and Ben’s capped
head thrust forth.
“Th’ pub’s lower dahn, tha’ druffen fooil,” said Ben’s voice
drowsily.
“Open, Ben, open for God’s sake. Th’ embankment’s burst at
Bilberry.”
But ere Ben had ceased to gape out of the lattice, Hannah, in her
petticoat, had run down the slender, narrow stairs, and unbolted the
door.
 “Quick, quick, where’s Lucy? Wakken her! Don yo’, Hannah. Ben,
Ben, haste thee, man. Oh, here’s Jack; that’s reight lad, aw feart tha’d
be longer.”
Lucy, pale, trembling, but calm, had come down, part dressed.
“Ar’t sure, Tom?” asked Ben.
“It’s giving bi inches, it cannot howd. What shall we do? Oh! What
shall we do?”
“Mak’ for th’ hills, for sure,” gasped Jack, as he drew deep draughts
of breath.
Then Tom felt a quiet hand upon his own, and Lucy by his side
drew him part aloof.
“There’s Dorothy lower down,” she whispered, “and if flood come,
oh! Woe is me for all at Wilberlee. Hark! the alarm is spread. Race to
Wilberlee; and Tom! kiss me, it may be good-bye.”
Tom kissed the tremulous lips raised to his. “God keep you, Lucy,
God keep us all. I cannot leave you.”
But Hannah, too, had thought of Wilberlee. “There’s Dorothy. Yo’
mun give th’ alarm at Wilberlee.”
“And you?” asked Tom: but even as he asked he had turned to the
door where the horse, all untethered, stood.
“Ben an’ me ’ll manage,” said jack. “Up wi’ thee, Tom. By gosh!
hark to ’em screechin’ up the valley.”
Aye, aye, the warning cries had been heard and heeded, and as
Tom wrung Ben’s hand and vaulted to patient Bess’s back the wind
bore to his ears the startled cry, “The flood! The flood! It’s come at
last,” and as the mare, spinning cobbles and pebbles behind its
clattering feet, galloping as though the foul fiend pursued, dashed
past farm and mill and house Tom cried loud and ever tender, “Oh,
rouse yo’, good folk, rouse yo’. Bilberry’s on yo’. The bank’s brust,”
and the small-paned windows were raised with quick grasp from
within, and startled faces with widening eyes peered forth into the
night, and still Tom raised the cry, now hoarse, now shrill, in voice
that almost failed. “The flood, the flood!” And loud and louder still
behind him grew the cries, deep toned of men, anguished shrill of
women, wailing tones of children roused from cradle and from cot.
The sleepy valley behind him slept no more. It had roused to panic,
to the sudden apprehension of ravage, ruin, death. Whither flee?
How save the little hoarded wealth; how bear the infirm mother, who
by inglenook declined daily to her grave cheered by the babbling
prattle of her daughter’s bairns; how save the bairns themselves! And
even as Tom rode the cries behind him swelled in volume till they fell
upon his ears as a hoarse roar, broken by shrill and piercing shriek,
and if his ears betrayed him not, above the din of human voice he
heard the growl of gathered waters loosed. No use to look behind, the
darkening skies veiled the sight. Thank God! Here is Wilberlee. Well
Tom knew the entrance to the yard. Pray God the gate yielded to his
thrust! It did. By there, through the yard, was the shortest cut to the
house. He swung from the back of the beast, now blown and
trembling. The panic had seized upon it. Grasping its mane Tom led
it through the yard, round the mill gable. Here the noises from above
were broken by the mill’s flank and hushed. Not a light shone
through the windows of the house. All was silent within, but at the
garden foot the river roared, and Tom in the dim light saw that on its
foaming breast it bore objects, strange, hideous, torn from the fields,
floating stacks of hay, ponderous engines and machines, the dark
outline of animals swept quickly by.
“Oh! rouse yo’! rouse yo’!” shrieked Tom. He tore a boulder from a
rockery by, and with it crashed at the stout outer door. It shook and
groaned but yielded not. Tom remembered that the window of the
sitting-room or drawing-room came to within a foot’s step from the
ground. It was a moment’s work to dash the window open with his
feet, and Tom amid the falling of the glass and the creaking crash of
wood-work was within the dark room, his clothes rent, his face
scratched, his hands bleeding. There were sounds above of
awakening life. Tom sprung to the foot of the passage stairs, finding
the inner door he knew not how. “Wake ye, wake ye,” he cried
hoarsely.
Then a light glimmered above, on the landing. It was Jabez Tinker
in his dressing gown. A candle was in his hand that he shaded from
the upward current.
“Thank God, yo’re up,” shouted Tom, bounding up the steps.
“Dress yo’, quick. Rouse the house. Bilberry’s burst. Oh! hark yo’.”
Some building higher up the river had fallen with a groan into the
stream and frantic cries rent the leaden skies mingling with the crash
of stone and iron and stout timbers torn like mere sprigs.
Suddenly from the well of darkness shone the gleam of a lanthorn.
It was impossible to see who held it. Mr. Tinker cried out:
“Who’s that?”
 “It’s me, Sergeant Ramsden,” said a calm, stentorian voice. “Glad
you’re up, sir. Time to flit. Had to wade here. Where’s Betty?”
“I’m here, George; but yo’ munnot think o’ coming up till aw’ve
med mysen some bit like.”
But the tramp of the sergeant was on the stairs already. His was a
welcome presence. The hurry and agitation of the past hour had told
on Tom. He felt sorely the need of help. Mr. Tinker seemed paralysed
not so much from fear as the sudden waking from sleep to stand face
to face with what perils none could tell. Betty clung to her constable,
but he was probably used to being clung to for protection by the
weaker sex.
“Where’s Peggy?” asked Tom.
“Gone to Harrogate to fetch aunt home.”
It was Dorothy who spoke. She had partially dressed, but her long,
curling, beautiful glossy hair fell like a veil upon her shoulders to her
waist she was pale and anxious, but she retained a great measure of
composure. She had drawn to her uncle’s side but her eyes were on
Tom.
“Are we safe here?” asked Mr. Tinker. “Is there any chance of my
being able to get across the yard to the office?”
“Can’t be done, sir,” said the Sergeant, touching his high hat as
well as he could with the hand that held the lanthorn. His other arm
supported Betty.
“The garden’s three feet deep and more. Same in mill yard, no
doubt, and rising every second; had to wade in. Glad to find window
broken down.”
There was a sudden shriek from Betty. Through the door of the
parlour that opened into the passage at the stair feet came a torrent
of water nigh as high as the doorway itself. It flooded the passage,
and, step by step, quicker than a man could mount them, scaled the
staircase to the landing on which they stood. Small articles of
furniture and ornaments were borne from the room, tossing and
colliding as if in a grotesque dance.
“Make for the attic,” said Mr. Tinker, and led the way, followed by
the women. Tom was hard upon them. The sergeant followed with an
agile departure from his professional staidness, deliberation, and
dignity of gait that only stress of circumstances constrained. If a
withering glance could have arrested it the rapidly rising, gaining
flood would have stayed its inroad.
 The attic was a low, barely furnished room, immediately under the
roof. It was lighted from above by a thick sky-window. It held two
low beds of plain deal—the chaste couches of Betty and Peggy. There
were two chests of drawers, one doubtless sacred to each maid. There
were two chairs, a washstand, a portrait of the sergeant, staff-in-
hand, and the like of a soldier over which Peggy was supposed to
weep out her heart in moments of despondency.
“I doubt we’re not out of it here,” whispered the sergeant to Tom.
He cast his light through the doorway. “See, the water mounts
quickly. ’Twill be on us, and we mun drown like rats in a hole.”
“Can you swim?” asked Tom, under his breath.
The sergeant nodded.
“Doff your boots; keep your cloak and breeches nothing else. Get
into that corner. Give me the light. Don’t let them see you doff.
They’re fleyed enough.”
There was no time even for suspense. The water was already in the
attic. Tom dragged a bed beneath the skylight and with a blow from
his stick shivered the thick glass.
“Yo’ mun get through th’ skylight, Ramsden,” he bawled. The
turmoil of the waters drowned all lower speech. “I’ll pass t’others to
you.”
Ramsden nodded. The habit of discipline is invaluable in the hour
of emergency. Tom had taken the command even in his old master’s
house, and it seemed natural that he should order and others obey.
With difficulty he twisted the portly constable through the
aperture. It was a tight squeeze.
“Tear up some of the slates. Widen th’ hole,” shouted Tom, as he
dragged a trunk to the top of the bed to stand on. “Now Dorothy,” he
whispered, “you next.”
“No, uncle,” she said, drawing back. This was no hour for
ceremony. Tom almost lifted Mr. Tinker bodily on to the trunk, the
sergeant from above seized his wrists, and Tom, with a mighty heave,
hoisted him aloft.
“Now you, Betty,” said Dorothy.
It was well for Betty the stone slabs had been wrenched with little
difficulty from the sounding lines of the aperture. She was stout and
heavy as seemeth a cook, and if there had not been strong braced
thighs on the stack, and arms like iron beneath her, Betty would have
slept that morn her last sleep on earth in the tiny attic she had
known so long.
“Now, Dorothy,” said Tom. She was already on the chest. He
pressed her hand tenderly as she turned her face towards the gap
through which the Sergeant had passed. Tom lifted her through
almost bodily. “Come you, now,” she said as she left his arms.
“Here, sergeant,” bawled Tom, “take these blankets and things. It’ll
be cold up there.” And Tom hastily passed blankets, sheets, and
counterpanes through the window. Then those above heard him
tearing at the bedsteads like one possessed. He rove them asunder by
main force and passed the sections to the sergeant. Then springing
on to the chest he thrust his arms to either side of the roof, and with
a thrust of the feet that sent the box flying, forced and prised himself
to the roof.
They could see little even by the light which the constable still
retained. They were sure only that Wilberlee House was all but
submerged, and that the devouring waters as they swept by them
crawled up the sloping roof. From the thick darkness came shouts
and wails and cries, and the thundering crash of falling buildings. By
the lanthorn’s glare and the casual glimpsing of the moon they saw,
as they strained their visions to pierce the black encircling pall, what
looked like huge pieces of machinery that broke from the tomb of the
night before their eyes and then were gone again. More than once,
almost level with the house eaves, a face of a man or woman, a white,
pallid, drawn face, with eyes distended in speechless horror, would
flash above the waters and then be borne away like chaff in a mighty
blast, or the long white trailing of a woman’s dress would shoot
beneath their feet, come and go ere they realised it was come. And
ever and anon those awful, thrilling, sickening cries, whose dread
import they but too surely guessed. The night was bitter cold. They
clung together, crouching low, their absorbing thought—would the
house stand the shock of those pounding waters, would the dinning
flood go on for ever?
Tom only had been engaged. Getting what hold he could by the low
chimney of the house, he fastened together with the cording of the
beds the disjointed laths, making a very passable raft. This he
lowered to the verge of the roof. It might be needed, who might say?
The very house seemed to shake under them as they crouched and
waited in agonised suspense. Had it been less stoutly built it must ere
this have been swept bodily away as rows upon rows of houses that
night of doom were swept away by the devouring torrent—many
bearing with them husband, wife and child, scarce roused from sleep
ere the flood clasped them in the embrace of death.
And still the surging water rose higher and higher, now creeping
slowly up the thatch, now sweeping swiftly upwards and now falling
as suddenly for a foot or two, giving a momentary hope the violence
of the storm was over—but only to surge nearer and nearer to those
who now clung to the ridge of the arched roof. Tom contrived to
crawl cautiously to Mr. Tinker’s side. With difficulty making the
dazed man hear him above the roar of the waters and the dinn that
stunned their sense, Tom made him understand that they must now
trust to the frail raft he had improvised.
“It’s our only chance, sir. The bindings of the roof are giving. And
look, look!”
Tom pointed across the mill-yard. The moon was clear of the
clouds, and for a few moments the scene of desolation and the waste
of waters might be seen by the silver light.
Mr. Tinker’s gaze followed the direction of the outstretched arms.
Across the yard towered the long mill chimney, and it was rocking
and swaying like a drunken man. There was not a moment to be lost.
The sergeant and Tom slipped the raft on to the bosom of the racing
flood. It was all but torn from their grasp.
“Get you on it with the women,” cried Tom. Betty was with
difficulty placed upon the frail support. Mr. Tinker followed her. The
sergeant, obedient to Tom’s gesture, sprang upon it.
“Now, Dorothy, jump for your life”; but even as the words left his
lips, the bark was torn from his grasp. There was a shriek of terror
from those aboard, and Ramsden cried, “The chimney. Oh! God! It’s
falling!”
Tom breathed a prayer.
“It’s you and me for it, Dorothy. Can you trust me?” He passed his
arm around her; she pressed her lips to his, and Tom, with his
almost unconscious charge, leaped far out into the centre of the
headlong current. And even as he leaped the great chimney-stack, its
base destroyed, swayed towards the house, and in one unbroken
mass fell upon the roof that had been their refuge, and Tom and
Dorothy were lost in the crested billows that leaped with angry roar
to meet the very skies.
 CHAPTER XV.
SOME ten days or so after the events recorded in the last chapter,
a stout woman past the middle age sat by a large four-posted bed in a
spacious and well-furnished bedroom. The eider-down coverlet of
the bed, its damask hangings, the prie-dieu by its side, the rich
covering of the walls, the silken curtaining of the windows, the full
pile of the carpets, the costly paintings on the walls indicated the
abode of wealth and refinement. The woman by the bedside, on
whom fell the genial rays of a bright-burning fire, was plainly but
neatly dressed. The anxious glances she cast upon the figure
stretched upon the bed seemed to bespeak a greater, a tenderer
concern than that of the ordinary professional nurse. There was no
sound in the room save the ticking of the massive marble clock upon
the mantel, and the regular breathing of the patient. The nurse
turned the pages of a ponderous family Bible, but as her attention
was confined to the highly coloured illustrations it is probable the
printed page was a dead letter to her eyes.
So absorbed was she in the contemplation of the ornate plate
depicting the sale of Joseph by his brethren that she almost dropped
the heavy book from her knees as a faint voice issued from between
the curtain folds.
“Has th’ buzzer gone, Hannah?”
“Sakes, alive! If he isn’t wakken,” the nurse exclaimed, drawing
back the curtain. “Eh! Tom, lad, it’s fain aw am to yer thi voice. But
tha munnot talk nor fash thisen.”
“Has th’ buzzer gone?” the invalid asked again. Then his eyes
wandered slowly and somewhat vacantly about the room.
“Where am I?” he asked.
“Aye, tha may weel ax, lad. Thou’rt at Mester Willie Brooke’s at
Northgate House i’ Honley, an’ here tha’s been awmost ivver sin they
sammed thi up i’th churchyard all swoonded away; an’ long it wer’
afore they knowed reightly whether tha wer’ wick or deead.”
“Have I been poorly?” asked Tom. “What am I doing here?
Where’s Ben? Is he at th’ mill? There’s those pieces for Skilbeck’s
want ’livering. Why isn’t Lucy here?”
 “Poorly! Tha may weel say that, an’ off thi yed for days together,
an’ of all th’ stuff ’at ivver a man talked, all abaat ’junctions, an’ love,
an’ ferrets, an’ rabbits, an’ then tryin’ to swim, an’ it took two on us to
howd thi i’ bed. But theer, it’s time tha had thi physic, an’ then thi
mun go to sleep agen, an’ th’ cook ’ll mak thi some arrowroot, an’
thou’rt to have a glass o’ port wine in it, th’ doctor says, teetotal or no
teetotal, which aw nivver did howd wi’ i’ time o’ sickness, an’ agen th’
law o’ natur’ in a way o’ speikin’.” But Hannah’s views on this grave
question were lost upon the invalid. He had again sunk into deep and
refreshing sleep, and as Hannah laid her hand gently upon his brow,
the slight moisture told that the fever in which he had tossed and
raved had succumbed to care and treatment.
When Tom awoke Hannah’s place had been taken by a tall, grey-
haired man of spare form, broad shoulders and slightly bent, his
forehead lined with the tracery of time and care. His eyes had been
long fixed upon the features of the sleeping youth and seemed from
their expression to seek for some flitting transient likeness they bore
a moment but to lose the next. It was Jabez Tinker. From the face so
often, so minutely scanned, the eyes of the watcher turned at times to
a small gold locket he held in his palm. It bore in pearls the letters.
 A.J.
It was the locket taken by Moll o’ Stuarts from the slender neck of
the way-worn woman the Hanging Gate had received more than
twenty years before, the locket confided to Tom by Mr. Black, and
which, ever since, night and day, sleeping or waking, he had worn
beneath his vest. Presently Mr. Tinker became aware by that subtle
uneasy sense we all have felt, that Tom’s eyes were fixed inquiringly
on his face. He rose somewhat stiffly to his feet and bent over the
bed. He took the hand that lay upon the coverlet.
“Are you better, Tom?” he asked, very gently. “We have been very
anxious about you.”
Tom looked upon the features, usually so stern, with puzzled
interest. He seemed to be searching for some elusive memory of the
past.
“I dreamed you were dead, drowned,” he said at length. “But I
seem to remember so many strange things for an instant or two.
Then it is all blank again. But mostly I seem to be fighting with some
awful, pitiless enemy that tosses and whirls and throttles me till I
choke. And then again all is dark and vague, and I remember
nothing.”
“Well, you see, I am not dead yet, Tom, thanks be to God, and
under God to you. ’Tis you, Tom, that have been nearer Jordan than
I.”
“Jordan!” said Tom, musingly. “Jordan! I was right then. I knew
there was a flood, somehow, but I thought it was Bilberry burst.”
Then, as if the very words brought a flash of crowding memory and
peopled his mind with vivid visions, he cried aloud:
“Dorothy! Dorothy! Where is Dorothy! Oh God, I’ve let her slip
again,” and a look of anguish, of hopeless despair was on his face,
and with trembling hands he covered his face, and burying his head
in the pillow, sobbed as though his whole being would dissolve in
tears.
Mr. Tinker beckoned to one who stood by the door. She had
entered the room very quietly, fearing to wake the patient. It was
Dorothy, looking frail and fragile, but not unhappy, for Hannah had
told her that Tom was coming to his senses, and the long, weary
waiting and fearing was at an end. As Dorothy with noiseless step
approached the bed Mr. Tinker drew aside. Dorothy touched gently
the hand bent upon the pillow, and stooped low, very low, so that her
lips were very near, and her breath played upon his cheek.
“No, Tom!” she whispered. “Not lost—won.” And as Tom raised his
face and gazed upon her as men upon the lineaments that are dearer
to them than life, when life is sweetest, her eyes drooped beneath his
ardent gaze, and the mantling colour suffused her cheek. She stole
her hand into his, and for a while they were still. Jabez came and
stood by his niece’s side.
“Leave us for a time, Dorothy,” he said. It was the voice of Jabez;
but not the voice she had so long been used to hear. It was almost
caressing in its gentleness. Dorothy smiled her assent.
“I’m to bring your arrowroot up, Tom, and I’ve made it myself. I
know the port wine’s nice. I tasted it. Don’t let the food be spoiled,
uncle, and, remember, Tom’s not to be bothered or upset. If he is,
won’t Hannah give it you, that’s all,” and she tripped away with a
glance at Tom that did him more good belike than arrowroot or wine.
Mr. Tinker waited until the door had closed upon her, then he
drew a chair to the bedside.
“I mustn’t agitate you, Tom,” he spoke. “But, oh! If you could
realise what my feelings have been since you have lain between life
and death, my dread lest you might pass away and make no sign, the
fears, the hopes alternate holding sway, the doubts, the prayers you
would forgive much to an old and stricken man.” He opened the
hand in which he still held the locket. Involuntarily Tom raised his to
feel for the trinket he had so long cherished.
“Can you tell me the meaning of this locket? It was found upon
your neck, they say, when you were picked up unconscious, scarce
breathing, your heart but flickering, in the churchyard yonder, after
the Flood had abated. You had saved Dorothy, how, she scarce seems
to know. But she lay very near to you, her head upon your breast.
They thought you both dead. But Dorothy was soon no worse. But
this locket, speak, Tom, what does it mean?”
“It was my mother’s,” said Tom.
“And she?”
“She died the night I was born.”
“But her name? Who was she? For heaven’s sake, Tom, tell me all
you know. You cannot divine how much hangs on your words. They
mean perhaps as much to me as you.”
 Then Tom told him the tale of the night on which this story
opened.
“And Fairbanks, the landlady, the midwife? They can tell me more,
they can speak to this. Does this Moll o’ Stute’s still live?”
“Oh, yes, Moll’s safe enough. Did you know my mother,
Mr. Tinker?”
“Know her! Oh! my God, know her! But ask me no more now,
Tom. Not a moment must be lost. Brook will lend me a horse. Mine
went with the Flood. I’ll see you to-morrow. Now have your
arrowroot and sleep and get strong and well. Whether my hopes are
well founded or not, you’re my son from this day, Tom, for you saved
my life, lad, and you saved Dorothy’s. And I’m proud of you, lad, I’m
proud of you—Tom Pinder, foundling, and there isn’t a man in the
valley that wouldn’t like to call you son, nor a girl you couldn’t win.
Hannah and Dorothy’ll look after you till tomorrow, then.”
It was the afternoon of the next day before Jabez Tinker returned
from his quest. In the interval between his departure and return,
Hannah had yielded to Tom’s importunity, and sent for Ben.
“Eh! Lad,” was Ben’s greeting, as he wrung the invalid’s hand with
a grip that made Tom wince, “aw could awmost find it i’ mi heart to
call it an answer to prayer. Yo’ munnot let on to Hannah, but mony a
time a day this last ten days an’ more, aw’ve been dahn o’ my
marrow-bones a prayin’ tha med be spared Th’ laws o’ natur’s all
vary weel, Tom, for th’ intellec’ but there’s times, lad, when th’ heart
o’ man turns to its Maker like a babby to its mother i’ its pain. An’
this has been sich a time, aw reckon. Eh! man! its fair heart-breakin’
to gooa dahn th’ valley. Near on eighty folks drahned, caantin’ th’
childer in, an’ as for th’ damage to property, a quarter million pund
willn’t cover it, folk sayn. Th’ Co-op. Mill’s gone, choose yah, an’
Wilberlee House an’ all. Yar bit o’ a whomstid’s safe, an’ that’s
summat to be thankful for; but, eh, mon, aw dunnot know wheer
we’st all ha’ to turn for summat to do, there’s thaasan’s an’ thaasan’s
o’ folk aat o’ wark, an’ no prospec’ o’ ther getting onny, an’ i’ thick o’
winter, too.”
“It’s all a dreadful muddle to me, Ben, I can’t seem to remember
much about it. How did you escape, and how came I here?”
“Well, aw nivver did!” exclaimed Ben. “Didn’t yo’ com’ an’ wakken
me up, an’ didn’t Jack an’ me awmost carry th’ missus an’ yar Lucy
till we gate ’em on to th’ ’ill-side. An’ if we couldn’t see mich on
account o’ th’ dark we could hear enough. By God! aw thowt th’ end
o’ th’ world wer’ come. An’ th’ skrikin’! Eh! lad, it wer’ enough to
freeze th’ blood i’ yo’r veins. But that didn’t last long. It were short
shrift for most on ’em. An’ then wonderin’ an’ wonderin’ what had
come on yo’. Aw thowt Lucy’d go fair daft abaat yo’. That’s a heart for
feelin’, if yo’ like. Then Jack couldn’t stand it no longer. He said he
could swim down to Wilberlee if he could nobbut be sure of findin’
th’ road. He said ’at if tha wer’ deead he’d as lief be deead, too, an’ aat
o’ th’ gate. An’, by gosh, he off, an’ ’atween runnin’ an’ wadin’ an’
swimmin’ he gate theer, but theer wer nooa signs o’ thee, or onybody
else, for that matter, an’ nowt but part o’ th’ mill truck to be seen. Th’
chimbley wer’ clean gone. But it wer’ Jack that fun’ thee all th’ same
up in Honley churchyard liggin’ ovver a gravestooan. An’ Miss
Dorothy. Gow! lad, ha tha mun ha’ hugged her. It’s a mercy tha didn’t
squeeze th’ life aat on her. Aw’ve nooan seen ’em missen, ’t isn’t
likely,” and, Ben winked; “but yar Hannah says oo’s black an blue
wheer thi arm held her. But oo’ll think none th’ worse of thee for
that.”
“Get on with your story, Ben, and don’t be frivolous. Where’s
Jack?”
“Oh, Jack’s all reight, barrin’ ’at he says he’s supped soa mich
watter o’ late that nowt but owd ale an’ plenty on it ’ll tak’ th’ taste
aat of his maath.”
“But you mustn’t let Jack get into evil courses Ben.”
“Oh! Jack ’ll be reight enough when he’s getten summat to do. But
it’s the owd tale. ‘Satan finds some mischief still for idle hands to do.’
Yo’ see ther’s a seet o’ folk come fro’ all th’ parts o’ Yorkshire an’
Lancashire to see th’ course o’ th’ flood and th’ deborah, as th’
newspapper ca’d th’ muck an’ th’ rubbish ’at’s left. Holmfirth’s more
like a fair nor owt else. It’s as bad as Honley Feeast time. An’ all th’
seet-seers ’at can get howd o’ Jack mun treeat him. If he does get a
bit fuddled afore bed-time it’s little wonder. Aw’ve often noticed ’at
folk ’ll pay for a pint o’ ale for a chap ’at wouldn’t gi’ him a penny-
teea-cake if he wer clammin’. Dun they let yo’ smoke i’ this fine
room, Tom? Aw’m fair dyin’ for a reek o’ baccy.”
But now Dorothy entered with a tray covered with a napkin snowy-
white and on it a basin of arrowroot, and Ben slipped his clay and flat
tin box into his pocket.
 “Aw rekkon aw’ll be gooin’, Tom, or Hannah ’ll be flytin’ me.
Nivver yo’ get wed, Tom, if yo’ want to ca’ yo’r soul yo’r own. It’s just
awful’ th’ way a felly’s put on after he’s once getten th’ noose raand ’is
neck. Tak a frien’s advice Tom an’ be warned i’ time.”
And with a wink that meant volumes, Ben conveyed himself away,
walking on tip-toe, as if afraid of waking a sleeper to whom sleep
might mean life or death.
“Now, Tom, you’ve got to eat this just now,” said Dorothy, “wait till
I see if it’s cool enough,” and she touched the lip of the spoon with
hers and affected to taste the odorous compound with the air of a
connoisseur. “It’s just nice, sir, and if that doesn’t cure you, nothing
will.”
“I could drink a bucketful,” protested Tom. Couldn’t I have a chop
or a steak? I’m as hungry as a hunter.’’
“Chop, indeed! I should think not. Later on you shall have a cup of
chicken-broth and the weest slice of toast. You’ve no idea how ill you
are.” Dorothy spoke lightly, but suddenly the woman gushed into her
eyes, and it was a poor, faltering voice that said, “But you’re better
now, thank God. Oh! Tom, if you had died!”
“Would you have cared very much, Dorothy?” asked Tom.
“Is that what you call eating arrowroot, sir? Listen, that’s uncle.
How soon he’s back.” Dorothy had gone to the window and drawn
aside the curtains. “The horse is covered with foam, and uncle looks
ten years younger and as glad as a bridegroom.”
A quick step was heard on the stairs, and Jabez Tinker stood at the
door of the sick-room.
“Is he awake, Dorothy?” whispered Mr. Tinker.
“Awake, yes, and likely to be, as far as I can see, what with one and
another. Call this a sick-room. Better call it a show and charge for
admission. It takes one maid’s time to attend to the door. If Mr.
Brooke doesn’t send in a bill for a new knocker and fresh paint, he’s a
saint.”
“There, there, chatterbox,” exclaimed Jabez, gaily. “Out you go,
Dorothy, and don’t come up again till I ring. Then you may come, no
one else.”
Mr. Tinker looked radiant, and, as Dorothy had said, younger by
ten good years. In his impatience he almost pushed his niece from
the room. Then he strode to the bed and held out both his hands to
Tom.
 “It’s true, Tom, it’s true, every word of it. Oh! that ever I should
live to see this day. I’ve dreamed of it, I’ve prayed for it, and now it
has come to me, this my great joy, out of the deep waters. Truly God
moves in a mysterious way.”
Tom had risen to a sitting posture. Jabez flung a loose shawl—it
was Dorothy’s—over his shoulders.
“You mustn’t risk taking cold,” he said, very gently. “Are you quite
sure you feel strong enough to hear a rather long story, Tom, or
would you rather wait?”
“I would rather hear it now, sir.”
“Then hear me to the finish and don’t judge me too harshly. God
knows I’ve suffered enough without your condemnation. But it might
have been worse, it might have been worse.”
Mr. Tinker was silent for a time, as if to arrange his thoughts or
choose his words. Then very gravely he spoke:
“My father, Tom, was a very strict, stern man” (“I’m not surprised
to hear that,” thought his listener) “and with an overweening sense of
family pride. He was very proud that he was a Tinker, and, indeed,
Tom, we are as old a family as there is in the valley. Never forget
that. And we have an unsullied name. My father had another failing,
if failing it be called. He was inordinately fond of money. He
expected, he took it for granted, that both Dick and myself would
marry not for money, of course, but where money was.
“But both his sons disregarded their father’s wishes. I, secretly,
while he yet lived; Richard, as you know, after his death. It was my
fate, at the house of a customer in Liverpool, to meet sweet Annie
Lisle, the family governess. She was an orphan, alone and
unfriended, in the world. What else she was, how sweet, how
winsome, how patient, how true and how trustful I cannot bear to
think of, still less speak. I won her love. I dared not speak of my
passionate devotion at home. My father with the burden of age had
become each year more exacting, less tolerant of opposition to his
will. I feared to anger him. It was in his power to disinherit me by his
will. I was absolutely dependent on him. The homestead was his, the
mill, the business, were his. I was not man enough to face poverty,
expulsion from my home, loss of social status—not even for my loved
one’s sake. Call me a poltroon, Tom, a coward, a cur, if you like. I
have used bitterer words than those to myself. I knew it would be
hopeless to ask my father’s consent. He would have had one word
—‘Go!’ Then I began, with a satisfaction I strove in vain to banish, to
observe, nay, to gauge, the sign of my father’s failing health. I
persuaded myself he was not long for this world, and in my heart of
hearts I was glad. But my passion ill brooked delay. I urged Annie to
a secret wedding. Reluctantly she consented. She procured a week’s
holiday from her employer, and we were married by special license at
the parish church of Seaford, on the south coast, a small fishing
hamlet little frequented by the tourist or holiday-maker. It was a
week of Paradise. Then my wife returned to her employment, I was
to find a favourable opportunity of breaking the news to my father.
Meantime anything might happen. I conjured my wife to keep our
secret. I kept the certificate of our marriage, so afraid was I lest it
should fall into another’s hand. My wife was not even to write to me
lest my father’s suspicions should be aroused. I continued to call on
my Liverpool customer as usual, and when he asked me as usual to
dine or sup at his house, I treated my own wife with the distant
courtesy one shows to a governess. One day, early in the winter of
1830, I called at the house of Mr.——, I was determined to take my
wife away. My father had softened much during the past few months.
He had agreed to pay me a fixed salary, instead of doling out a pound
or two for pocket money. I had resolved to place Annie in some small
cottage not far from Holmfirth I had thought of Greenfield. I could
see her there each week. And there was another reason why another
home should be found for her. Judge of my consternation when Mrs.
—, in answer to the inquiry which I made with assumed indifference
as to the health of the children and their governess, told me that Miss
Lisle had been dismissed her service, dismissed ignominiously,
without a character. I controlled myself as well as I could. Mrs. ——
said enough to convince me that my darling had been dismissed
under the darkest suspicion that can rest upon a pure, unsullied
woman. But even then I did not disclose the truth. My wife had
vanished and left no trace behind her. She had been true to her
promise to me, even when a word would have cleared her name and
confounded the angry jealous woman who spurned her from her
home. Almost penniless she turned into the world. She never wrote
to me or sent me word. Judge how I searched in all places likely and
unlikely for her. Secretly, with what scant means I could procure. I
instituted inquiries on every side; but my wife had disappeared as
effectively as though she had never been. She had never worn her
wedding ring; she had borne my name only during all that too brief
week of wedded bliss at Seaford. Time went by; I knew my wife, if
she still lived, must be a mother. I feared, then at last I persuaded
myself, that in her shame and grief she had destroyed herself. I called
upon my head the curse of the Almighty, but God seemed heedless of
my blasphemous ravings. From that time life for me had lost its
savour. I lived only for work, for business success. They were my
distraction. Then, as you know, I married. But of that I need not
speak. My wife bore me no children, and when I took Dorothy as my
ward I almost hated the child because I could not love her as my
own.”
There was a long silence. Tom feared to speak. He guessed the rest
too surely.
“One present only had I given to my sweetheart. It was a locket
with our initials intertwined, and a love-knot of our hair inside. It
was a whim of Annie’s. Tom, my boy, my son, you have worn that
locket about your neck. Can you forget the wrong I did your mother,
and forgive the father who can never forgive himself?”
“Nay, Mr. Tinker, nay, father, if indeed I am your son,” faltered
Tom.
“I’ve seen Moll o’ Stute’s. I’ve seen Mrs. Schofield. They
remembered the features of your mother as though she died but
yesterday. Besides—but there can be no question of it.”
“Well, father,” said Tom, very solemnly, “I thank God that I am
indeed your son. It is not for me to judge or to forgive. I will try to be
to you all your son should be.”
Jabez bent over the bed and kissed Tom’s brow, and the tears
streamed down the face of the elder man, his pride humbled, his cold
reserve broken down, the man of iron melted to a gentleness he had
never known before.
“Do you know, Tom,” he half laughed, half sobbed, “you’re not
unlike what I was at your age. You’re a Tinker, whether you like it or
not.”
“And a Lisle,” added Tom, and lay back upon his pillow in great
comfort. Then he added:
“So Dorothy’s my cousin.”
Jabez nodded.
“Can I come in?” spoke Dorothy’s voice outside. “Open the door,
uncle, I’ve both hands full.”
 “I’ll leave you together, Tom. I know more than you think I know,”
whispered the old man, and quitted the room.
“Of all the born conspirators commend me to Jabez Tinker, Esq.,
J.P., of Wilberlee Mill, that was, and to Mr. Tom Pinder, of Co-op.
Mill, also that was. Here’s your chicken-broth, sir, and you’re to
drink a glass of champagne—doctor’s orders.”
“Put it on the table, Dorothy, for a moment. I want to speak to you.
Come, stand here, please.”
Dorothy pouted, but obliged, “Behold, thine handmaiden,” she
said, “what wills my lord?”
“Dorothy, be serious for a moment. Your uncle has told me a
strange story. I cannot repeat it all. Can you credit it? I am your
cousin!”
“Oh! poor fellow, he’s raving again. I knew how it would be, all this
talking. I’m sorry to hear it, Tom—I do so hate cousins. I’ve dozens of
’em, and not one nice one in the lot.”
“And I’m not Tom Pinder, either.”
“And who may you please to be?”
“Only Tom Tinker, son of Jabez Tinker, of Wilberlee Mill that was
and is to be.”
Dorothy part withdrew from the bedside and looked long and
fixedly on Tom.
“And is that all you have to tell me, Mr. Tom Tinker?”
“No, Dorothy, I have another secret to tell you. But you must come
closer, closer still. Dorothy, I love you. I have loved you for years.
Will you be my wife?”
Dorothy made answer none. But when Tom drew her face to his
she suffered him.
“My darling, oh, my darling! I love you more than life,” murmured
Tom in her ear.
“And is that what you call telling me a secret? You silly boy, I’ve
known it ever so long.”
“And you, Dorothy, how long have you loved me?”
“Ah! that’s my secret.”
The story I set about to tell is told. Another house stands by
Wilberlee Mill; another mill stands upon the ruins of Wilberlee, and
Tom Tinker is master of the mill, and nominal master of the house.
There is a Young Jabez plays about an old man’s knee, and a sweet
fair-haired Lucy prattles and babbles on its godmother’s knee. Lucy
Garside was bridesmaid at Dorothy’s wedding, and was sponsor for
her daughter at the font. She remained unmarried through her life,
and she, too, had a secret; it was one that was never told.
Wilberlee Mill prospered. The hands were paid on the same
principles as Tom and Ben had introduced at Co-op. Mill, and
prospered with the mill. If Tom was never rich as this world counts
riches, he was rich in a wealth above a miser’s dream.
“What about the action ‘Pinder at the suit of Tinker,’” asked
Nehemiah Wimpenny of his client.
“Judgment for the defendant with costs,” was the curt reply.
“Happy to draw the marriage settlements,” ventured the
unabashed attorney.
“Thank you, Edwin Sykes will do that,” was the reply.
Wimpenny returned to his siege of the facile heart of the lively
Polly, and in time wedded her. But their marriage was not a happy
one. Nehemiah’s attachment to the bar of the Rose and Crown
survived Polly’s translation to a loftier sphere of life. He became a
confirmed tippler, and his clients left him one after the other. He
became in time that most pitiable of objects—a pot-house lawyer,
and only escaped the last disgrace of a lawyer’s life because no one
would trust him with their money.
Ben Garside took to Methodism in his old age, and wore glossy
black-cloth o’ Sundays. But he always averred that he had fallen from
his best ideals, and suffered the fear for his own soul to deaden his
concern for the souls of others. He and Jack smoked many a pipe
together in the calm summer months of peaceful and prosperous
years, seated on the crumbling walls of Co-op. Mill, and mourning
over a vanished dream.
The last sage dictum of Ben to be recorded in this narrative
suggested its title. It was uttered on the eve of his friend’s wedding.
“Aw reckon, Tom, as ha’ tha’ll be goin’ to Aenon Chapel after tha’rt
wed?”
“Why so?” asked Tom
“Cost tha’rt one o’ th’ elect.”
“I don’t take you, Ben.”
“Why, mon, doesn’t elect mean chossen.”
“I suppose so, Ben.”
“Why, doesn’t ta see, tha’rt Dorothy’s choice?”
THE END.
 THE HOLMFIRTH FLOOD.
As many of the readers of “Dorothy’s Choice” may not be
conversant with the facts upon which that story is based, and as
those who are may wish to have in concise form a historical narrative
of that great catastrophe the following account, taken from the
author’s “History of Huddersfield and Its Vicinity,” is appended:—
“The Bilberry Reservoir is situated at the head of a narrow gorge or
glen, leading from the Holme Valley, at Holme Bridge, to a high bluff
of land called Good Bent, and was supplied by two streams flowing
through the cloughs running to the north-east and south-east of
Good Bent, and draining the Moors of Holme Moss on the one side
and the hills running up to Saddleworth on the other, including some
thousands of acres of moorland. The confluence of the streams takes
place between two large hills, called Hoobrook Hill and Lum Bank,
and which run parallel to each other for a distance of about one
hundred and fifty yards, when they open out and form an extensive
oval basin of not less than three hundred yards diameter. The
reservoir formed by blocking up the valley below the basin enclosing
some twelve acres of surface. It was defective in its original
construction, and was for a long time known to be in a most
dangerous condition. At the time when the embankment gave way
the quantity of water in the reservoir would not be less than eighty-
six million two hundred and forty-eight thousand gallons or the
enormous and fearful amount of three hundred thousand tons in
weight. It burst a little before one o’clock in the morning of February
5th, 1852. The moon shone bright over the varied and romantic
landscape; the streamlets swollen by recent heavy rains, filled the
river to its banks; the industrious population were recruiting their
wasted energies by sleep, when all at once, in a moment, the
ponderous embankment was carried away by the force and weight of
the pent-up waters, and desolation, ruin, and death overspread the
rich and fertile valley for miles around. Trees were torn up by the
roots and hurried onwards by the rush of waters, roaring with
renewed fury as they swept each successive obstruction. The death-
shrieks of scores were hushed as the flood passed forwards to new
scenes of destruction and death, leaving in its track ponderous pieces
of rock weighing many tons; the dead carcases of horses, cows, goats,
and other cattle; here and there broken machinery, bags of wool,
carding machines, dye pans, steam engine boilers, timber, spars,
looms, furniture, and every variety of wreck. It would seem as if the
whole body of accumulated waters had tumbled down the valley
together, sweeping all before them, throwing a four-storey mill down
like a thing of nought, tossing steam engine boilers about like
feathers, and carrying death and destruction in their progress. In
consequence of the narrowness between the mountain bluffs on
either side, a vast volume of water was kept together, which spent its
force upon Holmfirth, where the mass of houses, shops, mills,
warehouses, and other buildings was expected to present a
formidable barrier to its further progress. The check, however, was
but momentary for the flood, with the mass of floating wreck which it
carried in its bosom, shot through buildings, gutted some, and
tumbled others down, until it found a further outlet and passed on,
doing more or less damage lower down the valley at Thongs Bridge,
Honley, and Armitage Bridge. After passing the last place mentioned
the flood got more into the open country spreading itself out in the
fields, and swelling the river down below Huddersfield. Much might
be written on the details and incidents connected with the
catastrophe. A few of the most striking may be mentioned. A few
hundred yards below the reservoir stood a small building two storeys
high called Bilberry Mill, the occupation of Joseph Broadhead, and
used as a scribbling and dressing mill. The end of the mill was caught
by the sudden swell, and about ten feet in length and its gable were
washed down the valley. A little further down the valley, and on the
same side as Bilberry Mill, stood Digley Upper Mill, lately occupied
by Mr. John Furniss, woollen manufacturer. The building was a
block of stone work, consisting of a factory, a large house, farm
buildings, and outhouses. The end of the mill was washed away, a
quantity of machinery, and a large amount of property in the shape
of pieces, warps, etc., destroyed, and the gable end of the house,
which was comparatively new, and the farm buildings swept away. In
the latter were twelve tons of hay, three cows, a horse, and several
head of poultry, which were all carried down the stream. A short
distance below stood Digley Mill property, which consisted of a large
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