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The sun had reached its highest point in the sky when the two who had walked from Kenmuir passed through the massive gray front doors of the Manor.
In the grand entrance hall, so impressive with all its painted portraits and other evidences of the many generations of the Squire’s honored family, were now gathered the numerous tenants of the wide March Mere Estate. They were weather-beaten, rent-paying sons of the soil; most of them native-born, many of them like James Moore, whose fathers had for generations owned and farmed the land they now leased from the Sylvesters—there in the old hall they were gathered, in great numbers. And standing apart from the others, placing himself, as though deliberately, beneath the frown of one of those armored warriors, guardian of the entrance, was little McAdam, always small and weak, wretched now, mocking his own manhood.
The door at the far end of the hall opened, and the Squire entered, smiling broadly at everyone.
“Here you are—eh, eh! How are you all? Glad to see ye! Good-day, James! Good-day, Saunderson! Good-day to you all! Bringing a friend with me—eh, eh!” and he stood aside to allow his agent, Parson Leggy, to pass, and then, last of all, shy and blushing, a fair-haired young giant.
“If it ain’t David!” people cried out. “Eh, lad, we’s happy to see you! And yer lookin’ well, surely!” And they crowded around the boy, shaking him by the hand and asking him for his story.
It was a simple tale. After he had run away on that eventful night, he had gone south, working as a drover of cattle, taking them to market. He had written to Maggie and had been surprised and hurt to receive no answer. In vain he had waited, and, too proud to write again, he had not known about his father’s recovery, and had neither wanted to return, nor dared to. Then, by mere chance, he had met the Squire at the York cattle-show; and that kind man, who knew his story, had quieted his fears and made him promise to return as soon as his employment was finished. And there he was.
The Dalesmen gathered around the boy, listening to his story, and in return telling him the home news, and teasing him about Maggie.
Of all the people present, only one seemed unmoved, and that was McAdam. When David had first entered the hall, the little man had started forward, a flush of color warming his thin cheeks; but no one had noticed his emotion; and now, back again beneath his armor, he watched the scene, a sour smile playing about his lips.
“I think the lad might have the grace to come and say he’s sorry for trying to murder me. However”—with his usual shrug—“I suppose I’m being unreasonable.”
Then the gong rang out the summons for dinner, and the Squire led the way into the great dining-hall. At one end of the long table, heavy with all the solid delicacies of such a feast, he took his seat with the Master of Kenmuir on his right. At the other end was Parson Leggy. While down either side settled the strong, dependable Dalesmen, with McAdam a little lost figure in the center.
At first they hardly talked, as shy as children; knives cut, glasses tinkled, the men carving the roasts worked away, only the tongues were quiet. But the Squire’s ringing laugh and the parson’s cheery tones soon made them feel comfortable; and a confusion of voices rose and grew loud.
Of them all, only McAdam sat silent. He talked to no one, and you may be sure that no one talked to him. His hand crept more often to his glass than to his plate, until his pale face grew rosy and the dim eyes became unnaturally bright.
Toward the end of the meal, there was a loud tapping on the table, calls for silence, and men pushed back their chairs. The Squire had risen to his feet, to make his yearly speech.
He started by telling them how glad he was to see them there. He mentioned Owd Bob and the Shepherds’ Trophy, at which the men clapped loudly. He mentioned the Black Killer, and said he had a solution to propose: that the Owd One should be set upon the criminal’s track—a suggestion that was received with enthusiasm, while McAdam’s cackling laugh could be heard high above the rest.
From there, he went on to speak about the present state of agriculture, and its economic depression, which he felt was the fault of the recent Radical Government. He said that now, with the Conservatives in office, and a government made up of “honorable men and gentlemen,” he was convinced that things would get better. The Radicals’ only ambition, he said, was to set class against class, landlord against tenant. Well, during the last five hundred years, his own family, the Sylvesters, had almost never been—he was sorry to say—good men (at this, there was laughter and disagreement); but he had never yet heard of a Sylvester—though he shouldn’t say it—who was a bad landlord (at this, there was loud applause).
This was a free country, and any tenant of his who was not happy (a voice called out, “Who says we ain’t?”)—“thank you, thank you!”—well, there was plenty of room for him elsewhere in the world. (Cheers.) He thanked God from the bottom of his heart that, during the forty years he had been responsible for the March Mere Estate, there had never been any bad feeling or difficulty between him and his people (cheers), and he didn’t think there ever would be. (Loud cheers.)
“Thank you, thank you!” And his motto was, “Avoid a Radical as you would avoid the devil!”—and he was very glad to see them all there—very glad; and he wished to propose a toast to “The Queen! God bless her!” and—wait a minute!—along with her Majesty’s name, to join to it another—he was sure that gracious lady would wish it—“Owd Bob of Kenmuir!” Then he sat down suddenly in the midst of thundering applause.
The men drank in honor of the Squire’s toasts, and then James Moore, as was his right, as Master of Kenmuir, rose to answer.
He began by saying that he spoke “as representing all the tenants”—but he was interrupted.
“Na,” came a shrill voice from halfway down the table. “All except me, James Moore. I’d as soon be represented by Judas the traitor!”
There were cries of “Hold yer gab, little man!” and the Squire’s voice spoke, “That’ll do, Mr. McAdam!”
The little man held his tongue, but his eyes gleamed like a ferret’s; and the Master went on with his speech.
He spoke briefly and clearly, in short phrases. And all the while McAdam kept muttering a steady stream of comments. At last he could not control himself any longer. Half rising from his chair, he leaned forward with hot face and burning eyes, and cried: “Sit down, James Moore! How dare ye stand there like an honest man, ye whitewashed sepulcher?”—quoting the Bible and meaning that Moore was a hypocrite, fair on the outside, corrupt on the inside. “Sit down, I say, or”—threateningly—“would ye have me come to ye?”
At that, the Dalesmen laughed loudly, and even the Master’s grim face relaxed. But the Squire’s voice rang out sharp and stern.
“Keep silence and sit down, Mr. McAdam! D’you hear me, sir? If I have to speak to you again, it will be to order you to leave the room.”
The little man obeyed, ill-humored and vengeful, like a beaten cat.
The Master ended his speech by asking everyone present to give three cheers for the Squire, her ladyship, and the young ladies, their daughters.
The men responded enthusiastically, everyone standing. Just as the noise was at its height, Lady Eleanour herself, with her two pretty girls, walked gracefully out onto the balcony at the end of the hall; at which the cheering became deafening.
Slowly the noise quieted. One by one the tenants sat down again. At last there was left standing only one lonely figure—McAdam.
His face was rigid, and he gripped the chair in front of him with thin, nervous hands.
“Mr. Sylvester,” he began in a low yet clear voice, “ye said this is a free country and we’re all free men. And that being so, I’ll take the liberty, with yer permission, to say a word. It’s maybe the last time I’ll be with ye, so I hope ye’ll listen to me.”
The Dalesmen looked surprised, and the Squire looked uncomfortable. But he nodded his agreement.
The little man straightened up. His face was te
nse, as though determined to do something difficult. All the passion had vanished from it, all the bitterness was gone; and what was left was a strange, noble seriousness. Standing there in the silence of that great hall, with every eye upon him, he looked like some prisoner in a court of law about to plead for his life.
“Gentlemen,” he began, “I’ve been among ye now twenty years or so, and I can truly say there’s not a man in this room I can call ‘Friend.’” He looked along the rows of upturned faces. “Ay, David, I see you, and you, Mr. Hornbut, and you, Mr. Sylvester—every one of you, and not one who would defend me like a comrade if a trouble came upon me.” There was no reproach in the grave little voice—it merely stated a hard fact.
“There’s not a single one of ye, I doubt, who does not have someone—friend or family—he can turn to when things are going bad with him. I have no one.
“‘I bear alane my lade o’ care—’ alone with Wullie, who stands by me, wind or snow, rain or shine. And now I’m afraid he’ll be taken from me.” He spoke this last half to himself, a sorrowful, puzzled expression on his face, as though lately he had dreamed some evil dream.
“Except for Wullie, I’ve no friend on God’s earth. And, mind ye, a bad man often makes a good friend—but ye’ve never given me the chance. It’s a miserable thing, that, gentlemen, to have to fight the battle of life alone: no one to pat ye on the back, no one to say ‘Well done.’ It hardly gives a man a chance. For if he does try and yet fails, men pay no attention to the trying, they see only the failing.
“I don’t blame ye. There’s something bred in me, it seems, that sets everyone against me. It’s the same with Wullie and the other dogs—they’re down on him same as men are on me. I suppose we was made that way. Since I was a lad, it’s always been the same. From school days on, I’ve had everyone against me.
“In my life I’ve had three friends. My mother—and she died; then my wife”—he gave a great swallow—“and she’s gone; and I may say they’re the only two human beings as have lived on God’s earth in my time that ever tried to put up with me—and Wullie. A man’s mother—a man’s wife—a man’s dog! It’s often all he has in this world; and the more he cares for them, the more likely they are to be took from him.” The serious little voice shook, and the dim eyes filled with tears.
“Since I’ve been among ye—twenty-odd years—can any man here remember speaking any word that wasn’t ill to me?” He paused; there was no answer.
“I’ll tell ye. All the time I’ve lived here, I’ve had one kindly word spoke to me, and that two weeks ago, and not by a man then—but by her ladyship, God bless her!” He glanced up into the balcony. No one could be seen there; but a curtain at one end shook as though someone behind it were sobbing.
“Well, I’m thinking we’ll be going in a little while now, Wullie and me, alone and together, as we’ve always done. And it’s time we went. Ye’ve had enough of us, and it’s not for me to blame ye. And when I’m gone, what’ll ye say about me? ‘He was a drunkard.’ I am. ‘He was a sinner.’ I am. ‘He was everything he shouldn’t be.’ I am. ‘We’re glad he’s gone.’ That’s what ye’ll say about me. And it’s what I deserve.”
The gentle, condemning voice stopped, and began again.
“That’s what I am. If things had been different, maybe I’d have been different. Do ye know Robbie Burns? That’s a man I’ve read, and read, and read. Do ye know why I love him as some of you do your Bibles? Because there’s something human and generous about him. A weak man himself, always slipping, slipping, slipping, and trying to hold himself up; sorrowing one minute, sinning the next; doing bad things and wishing he could undo them—just a plain human man, a sinner. And that’s why I’m thinking he’s tender towards us who are like him. He understood. It’s what he wrote—after one of his tumbles, I’m thinking—that I was going to tell ye:
‘Then gently scan yer brother man,
Still gentler sister woman,
Though they may gang a kennin’ wrang,
To step aside is human—’
(Then gently study your fellow man,
Still gentler your fellow woman,
Though they may knowingly go wrong,
To stray from the path is human—)
the teaching of forgiveness. Give him his chance, says Robbie, though he be a sinner. Many a man would be different, many a bad man would be good, if only they had their chance. Give them their chance, says he; and I’m with him. As it is, ye see me here—a bad man with still a streak of good in him. If I’d had my chance, maybe it would be—a good man with just a spice of the devil in him. All the difference between what is and what might have been.”
CHAPTER 28
The Devil’s Bowl
HE SAT down. In the great hall there was silence, except for a tiny sound from the balcony like a sob stifled.
The Squire stood up quickly and left the room.
After him, one by one, the tenants drifted out.
At last, only two were left—McAdam, sitting alone with a long row of empty chairs on either side; and, at the far end of the table, Parson Leggy, stern, upright, motionless.
When the last man had left the room, the parson rose, and with lips tight-set strode across the silent hall.
“McAdam,” he said quickly and almost roughly, “I’ve listened to what you’ve said, as I think we all have, with a sore heart. You hit hard—but I think you were right. And if I haven’t done my duty by you as I should have—and I fear I have not—it’s now my duty as God’s minister to be the first to say I’m sorry.” And it was clear from his face what an effort the words cost him.
The little man tilted back his chair, and raised his head.
It was the old McAdam who looked up. The thin lips were curled; a grin was crawling across the mocking face; and he wagged his head gently, as he looked at the speaker through the slits of his half-closed eyes.
“Mr. Hornbut, I believe ye thought I was serious, indeed I do!” He leaned back in his chair and laughed softly. “Ye swallowed it all down like good butter. Dear, dear! To think of that!” Then, stretching forward: “Mr. Hornbut, I was only playing with ye.”
The parson’s face, as he listened, was ugly to watch. He shot out a hand and grabbed the mocking man by his coat; then dropped it again and turned abruptly away.
As he passed through the door, a little sneering voice called after him:
“Mr. Hornbut, I ask ye how you, a minister of the Church of England, can with a good conscience think—even for a minute—that there can be any good in a man who doesn’t go to church? Sir, ye’re a disbeliever—not to say a heathen!” He snickered to himself, and his hand crept to a half-empty wine decanter.
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An hour later, James Moore, his business with the Squire completed, passed through the hall on his way out. The only person there was now McAdam, and the Master walked straight up to his enemy.
“McAdam,” he said gruffly, holding out a muscular hand, “I’d like to say—”
The little man knocked aside the token of friendship.
“Na, na. No sweet talk, if ye please, James Moore. Maybe that’ll go down with the parsons, but not with me. I know you and you know me, and all the whitewash in the world will not fool us.”
The Master turned away, and his face was as hard as a millstone. But the little man went after him.
“I nearly forgot,” he said. “I’ve a surprise for ye, James Moore. But I hear it’s yer birthday on Sunday, and I’ll keep it till then—he, he!”
“Ye’ll see me before Sunday, McAdam,” the other answered. “On Saturday, as I told you, I’m comin’ to see if you’ve done yer duty.”
“Whether ye come, James Moore, is your business. Whether ye’ll ever leave again, once you’re there, will be my business. I’ve warned ye twice now”—and the little man laughed that harsh, cackling laugh of his.
At the door of the hall, the Master met David.
“Now, lad, you’re coming along with An
drew and me,” he said; “Maggie’ll never forgive us if we don’t bring you home with us.”
“Thank you kindly, Mr. Moore,” the boy answered. “I have to see Squire first; and then you may be sure I’ll be along after you.”
The Master hesitated for a moment.
“David, have you spoke to yer father yet?” he asked in a low voice. “You should, lad.”
The boy made a gesture of disagreement.
“I can’t,” he said impatiently.
“I would, lad,” the other advised. “If you don’t, you may be sorry later.”
As he turned away, he heard the boy’s steps, dull and muffled, as he crossed the hall; and then a thin, falsely pleasant voice in the emptiness:
“I declare if it isn’t David! The return of the Prodigal Son—he, he! So ye’ve seen yer old dad at last, and the last; the proper place, ye say, for yer father—he, he! Eh, lad, I’m happy to see ye. Do ye remember when we was last together? Ye was kneeling on my chest: ‘Your time’s come, dad,’ says you, and strikes me on the face—he, he! I remember it as if it was yesterday. Well, well, we’ll say no more about it. Boys will be boys. Sons will be sons. Accidents will happen. And if at first ye don’t succeed, why, try, try again—he, he”
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Dusk was changing to dark when the Master and Andrew reached the Dalesman’s Daughter. It had been dark for a long time when they came out again from the cozy parlor of the inn and plunged into the night.
As they crossed the Silver Lea and trudged over that familiar ground, where, just two weeks before, the battle of the Cup had been fought, the wind fluttered past them in fitful gusts.
“There’s trouble in the wind,” said the Master.
“Ay,” answered his son, who was quiet by nature.
All day there had been not a breath of air, and the sky was dangerously blue. But now a world of black was surging up from the horizon, smothering the starlit night; and small dark clouds, like puffs of smoke, separating themselves from the main body, were driving wildly forward—the front of the oncoming storm.
Alfred Ollivant's Bob, Son of Battle Page 22
