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.”