Tails to Wag (23 page)

He turned away, but turned again.

“I'm sorry for ye, but I've ma duty to do—so've you. Till Saturday I shall breathe no word to ony soul o' this business, so that if you see good to put him oot o' the way wi'oot bother, no one need iver know as hoo Adam M'Adam's Red Wull was the Black Killer.”

He turned away for the second time. But the little man sprang after him, and clutched him by the arm.

“Look ye here, James Moore!” he cried in thick, shaky horrible voice. “Ye're big, I'm sma'; ye're strang, I'm weak; ye've ivery one to your back, I've niver a one; you tell your story, and they'll believe ye—for you gae to church; I'll tell mine, and they'll think I lie—for I dinna. But a word in your ear! If iver agin I catch ye on ma land, by—!”—he swore a great oath—“I'll no spare ye. You ken best if I'm in earnest or no.” And his face was dreadful to see in its hideous determinedness.

II

That night a vague story was whispered in the Sylvester Arms. But Tammas, on being interrogated, pursed his lips and said: “Nay, I'm sworn to say nowt.” Which was the old man's way of putting that he knew nowt.

On Thursday morning, James Moore and Andrew came down arrayed in all their best. It was the day of the squire's annual dinner to his tenants.

The two, however, were not allowed to start upon their way until they had undergone a critical inspection by Maggie; for the girl liked her mankind to do honour to Kenmuir on these occasions. So she brushed up Andrew, tied his scarf, saw his boots and hands were clean, and titivated him generally till she had converted the ungainly hobbledehoy into a thoroughly “likely young mon.”

And all the while she was thinking of that other boy for whom on such gala days she had been wont to perform like offices. And her father, marking the tears in her eyes, and mindful of the squire's mysterious hint, said gently:

“Cheer up, lass. Happen I'll ha' news for you the night!”

The girl nodded, and smiled wanly.

“Happen so, dad,” she said. But in her heart she doubted.

Nevertheless it was with a cheerful countenance that, a little later, she stood in the door with wee Anne and Owd Bob and waved the travellers Godspeed; while the golden-haired lassie, fiercely gripping the old dog's tail with one hand and her sister with the other, screamed them a wordless farewell.

The sun had reached its highest when the two wayfarers passed through the gray portals of the Manor.

In the stately entrance hall, imposing with all the evidences of a long and honourable line, were gathered now the many tenants throughout the wide March Mere Estate. 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 at the hands of the Sylvesters—there in the old hall they were assembled, a mighty host. And apart from the others, standing as though in irony beneath the frown of one of those steel-clad warriors who held the door, was little M'Adam, puny always, paltry-now, mocking his manhood.

The door at the far end of the hall opened, and the squire entered, beaming on 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! Bringin' a friend with me—eh, eh!” and he stood aside to let by his agent, Parson Leggy, and last of all, shy and blushing, a fair-haired young giant.

“If it bain't David!” was the cry. “Eh, lad, we's fain to see yo'! And yo'm lookin' stout, surely!” And they thronged about the boy, shaking him by the hand, and asking him his story.

'Twas but a simple tale. After his flight on the eventful night he had gone south, drovering. He had written to Maggie, and been surprised and hurt to receive no reply. In vain he had waited, and too proud to write again, had remained ignorant of his father's recovery, neither caring nor daring to return. Then by mere chance, he had met the squire at the York cattle-show; and that kind man, who knew his story, had eased his fears and obtained from him a promise to return as soon as the term of his engagement had expired. And there he was.

The Dalesmen gathered round the boy, listening to his tale, and in return telling him the home news, and chaffing him about Maggie.

Of all the people present, only one seemed un­moved, and that was M'Adam. When first David had entered he had started forward, a flush of colour warming his thin cheeks; but no one had noticed his emotion; and now, back again beneath his armour, he watched the scene, a sour smile playing about his lips.

“I think the lad might ha' the grace to come and say he's sorry for 'temptin' to murder me. Hooiver”—with a characteristic shrug—“I suppose I'm onraisonable.”

Then the gong rang out its summons, and the squire led the way into the great dining-hall. At the 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 upon his right. At the other end was Parson Leggy. While down the sides the stalwart Dalesmen were arrayed, with M'Adam a little lost figure in the centre.

At first they talked but little, awed like children: knives plied, glasses tinkled, the carvers had all their work, only the tongues were at rest. But the squire's ringing laugh and the parson's cheery tones soon put them at their ease; and a babel of voices rose and waxed.

Of them all, only M'Adam sat silent. He talked to no man, and you may be sure no one talked to him. His hand crept oftener to his glass than plate, till the sallow face began to flush, and the dim eyes to grow unnaturally bright.

Toward the end of the meal there was loud tapping on the table, calls for silence, and men pushed back their chairs. The squire was on his feet to make his annual speech.

He started by telling them how glad he was to see them there. He made an allusion to Owd Bob and the Shepherds' Trophy which was heartily ap­plauded. He touched on the Black Killer, and said he had a remedy to propose: that Th' Owd Un should be set upon the criminal's track—a suggestion which was received with enthusiasm, while M'Adam's cackling laugh could be heard high above the rest.

From that he dwelt upon the existing condition of agriculture, the depression in which he attributed to the late Radical Government. He said that now with the Conservatives in office, and a ministry composed of “honourable men and gentlemen” he felt convinced that things would brighten. The Radicals' one ambition was to set class against class, landlord against tenant. Well, during the last five hundred years, the Sylvesters had rarely been—he was sorry to have to confess it—good men [laughter and dissent]; but he never yet heard of the Sylvester—though he shouldn't say it—who was a bad landlord [loud applause].

This was a free country, and any tenant of his who was not content [a voice, “'Oo says we bain't?”]—“thank you, thank you!”—well, there was room for him outside. [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 friction 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 “Shun a Radical as you do the devil!”—and he was very glad to see them all there—very glad; and he wished to give them a toast, “The Queen! God bless her!” and—wait a minute!—with her Majesty's name to couple—he was sure that gracious lady would wish it—that of “Owd Bob o' Kenmuir!” then he sat down abruptly amid thundering applause.

The toasts duly honoured, James Moore, by prescriptive 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 half-way down the table. “Ye'll except me, James Moore. I'd as lief be represented by Judas!”

There were cries of “Hold ye gab, little mon!” and the squire's voice, “That'll do, Mr. M'Adam!”

The little man restrained his tongue, but his eyes gleamed like a ferret's; and the Master continued his speech.

He spoke briefly and to the point, in short ­phrases. And all the while M'Adam kept up a low-voiced, running commentary. At length he could control himself no longer. Half rising from his chair, he leant forward with hot face and burning eyes, and cried: “Sit doon, James Moore! Hoo daur ye stan' there like an honest man, ye whitewashed sepulchre? Sit doon, I say, or”—threateningly—“wad ye hae me come to ye?”

At that the Dalesmen laughed uproariously, and even the Master's grim face relaxed. But the squire's voice rang out sharp and stern.

“Keep silence and sit down, Mr. M'Adam! 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, sullen and vengeful, like a beaten cat.

The Master concluded his speech by calling on all present to give three cheers for the squire, her ladyship, and the young ladies.

The call was responded to enthusiastically, every man standing. Just as the noise was at its zenith, Lady Eleanour herself, with her two fair daughters, glided into the gallery at the end of the hall; whereat the cheering became deafening.

Slowly the clamour subsided. One by one the tenants sat down. At length there was left standing only one solitary figure—M'Adam.

His face was set, and he gripped the chair in front of him with thin, nervous hands.

“Mr. Sylvester,” he began in low yet clear voice, “ye said this is a free country and we're a' free men. And that bein' so, I'll tak' the liberty, wi' yer permission, to say a word. It's maybe the last time I'll be wi' ye, so I hope ye'll listen to me.”

The Dalesmen looked surprised, and the squire uneasy. Nevertheless he nodded assent.

The little man straightened himself. His face was tense as though strung up to a high resolve. All the passion had fled from it, all the bitterness was gone; and left behind was a strange ennobling earnestness. Standing there in the silence of that great hall, with every eye upon him, he looked like some prisoner at the bar about to plead for his life.

“Gentlemen,” he began, “I've bin amang ye noo a score years, and I can truly say there's not a man in this room I can ca' ‘Friend,'” He looked along the ranks of upturned faces. “Ay, David, I see ye, and you, Mr. Hornbut, and you, Mr. Sylvester—ilka one o' you, and not one as'd back me like a comrade gin a trouble came upon me.” There was no rebuke in the grave little voice—it merely stated a hard fact.

“There's I doot no one amang ye but has some one—friend or blood—wham he can turn to when things are sair wi' him. I've no one.

 

“I bear alane my lade o' care'—

 

alane wi' Wullie, who stands to me, blaw or snaw, rain or shine. And whiles I'm feared he'll be took from me.” He spoke this last half to himself, a grieved, puzzled expression on his face, as though lately he had dreamed some ill dream.

“Forbye, Wullie, I've no friend on God's earth. And, mind ye, a bad man aften mak's a good friend—but ye've never given me the chance. It's a sair thing that, gentlemen, to ha' to fight the battle o' life alane: no one to pat ye on th' back, no one to say ‘Weel done.' It hardly gies a man a chance. For gin he does try and yet fails, men never mind the trying', they only mark the failin'.

“I dinna blame ye. There's something bred in me, it seems, as set ivery one agin me. It's the same wi' Wullie and the tykes—they're doon on him same as men are on me. I suppose we was made so. Sin' I was a lad it's aye bin the same. From school days I've had ivery one agin me.

“In ma life I've had three friends. Ma mither—and she went; then ma wife”—he gave a great swallow—“and she's awa'; and I may say they're the only two human bein's as ha' lived on God's earth in ma time that iver tied to bear wi' me;—and Wullie. A man's mither—a man's wife—a man's dog! it's aften a' he has in this warld; and the more he prizes them the more like they are to be took from him.” The little earnest voice shook, and the dim eyes puckered and filled.