Tails to Wag (24 page)

“Sin I've bin amang ye—twenty-odd years—can any man here mind speakin' any word that wasna ill to me?” He paused; there was no reply.

“I'll tell ye. All the time I've lived here I've had one kindly word spoke to me, and that a fortnight gone, and not by a man then—by her ladyship. God bless her!” He glanced up into the gallery. There was no one visible there; but a curtain at one end shook as though it were sobbing.

“Weel, I'm thinkin' we'll be gaein' in a wee while noo, Wullie and me, alane and thegither, as we've aye done. And it's time we went. Ye've had enough o' us, and it's no for me to blame ye. And when I'm gone what'll ye say o' me? ‘He was a drunkard.' I am. ‘He was a sinner.' I am. “He was ilka thing he shouldna be.' I am. ‘We're glad he's gone.' That's what ye'll say o' me. And it's but ma deserts.”

The gentle, condemning voice ceased, and began again.

“That's what I am. Gin things had been differ', aiblins I'd ha' bin differ'. D'ye ken Robbie Burns? That's a man I've read, and read, and read. D'ye ken why I love him as some o' you do yer Bibles? Because there's a humanity about him. A weak man hissel', aye slippin', slippin', and tryin' to haud up; sorrowin' ae minute, sinnin' the next; doin' ill deeds and wishin' 'em undone—just a plain human man, a sinner. And that's why I'm thinkin' he's tender for us as is like him. He
understood
. It's what he wrote—after ain o' his tumbles. I'm thinkin'—that I was goin' 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'—

 

the doctrine o' Charity. Gie him his chance, says Robbie, though he be a sinner. Mony a mon'd be differ', mony bad'd be gude, gin they had but their chance. Gie 'em their chance, says he; and I'm wi' him. As 'tis, ye see me here—a bad man wi' a streak o' good in him. Gin I'd had ma chance, aiblins 'twad be—a good man wi' just a spice o' the devil in him. A' the differ' betune what is and what might ha' bin.”

 

III

He sat down. In the great hall there was silence, save for a tiny sound from the gallery like a sob suppressed.

The squire rose hurriedly and left the room.

After him, one by one, trailed the tenants.

At length, two only remained—M'Adam, sitting solitary with a long array of empty chairs on either hand; 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.

“M'Adam,” he said rapidly 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've not done my duty by you as I ought—and I fear I've not—it's now my duty as God's minister to be the first to say I'm sorry.” And it was evident 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 M'Adam 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 thocht me in earnest, 'deed and I do!” He leaned back in his chair and laughed softly. “Ye swallered it all down like best butter. Dear, dear! to think o' that!” Then, stretching forward: “Mr. Hornbut, I was playin' wi' ye.”

The parson's face, as he listened, was ugly to watch. He shot out a hand and grabbed the scoffer 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 hoo you, a minister o' the Church of England, can reconcile it to yer conscience to think—though it be but for a minute—that there can be ony good in a man and him no churchgoer? Sir, ye're a heretic—not to say a heathen!” He sniggered to himself, and his hand crept to a half-emptied wine decanter.

An hour later, James Moore, his business with the squire completed, passed through the hall on his way out. Its only occupant was now M'Adam, and the Master walked straight up to his enemy.

“M'Adam,” he said gruffly, holding out a sinewy hand, “I'd like to say—”

The little man knocked aside the token of friendship.

“Na, na. No cant, if ye please, James Moore. That'll aiblins go doon wi' the parsons, but not wi' me. I ken you and you ken me, and all the whitewash i' th' warld 'll no deceive us.”

The Master turned away, and his face was hard as the nether millstone. But the little man pursued him.

“I was nigh forgettin',” 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, M'Adam,” the other answered. “On Saturday, as I told yo', I'm comin' to see if yo've done yer duty.”

“Whether ye come, James Moore, is your business. Whether ye'll iver go, once there, I'll mak' mine. I've warned ye twice noo”—and the little man laughed that harsh, cackling laugh of his.

At the door of the hall the Master met David.

“Noo lad, yo're comin' along wi' Andrew and me,” he said; “Maggie'll niver forgie us if we dinna bring yo' home wi' us.”

“Thank you kindly, Mr. Moore,” the boy replied. “I've to see squire first; and then yo' may be sure I'll be after you.”

The Master faltered a moment.

“David, ha'n yo' spoke to yer father yet?” he asked in low voice. “Yo' should lad.”

The boy made a gesture of dissent.

“I canna,” he said petulantly.

“I would, lad,” the other advised. “An yo' don't yo' may be sorry after.”

As he turned away he heard the boy's steps, dull and sodden, as he crossed the hall; and then a thin, would-be cordial voice in the emptiness:

“I declar' if 'tisna David! The return o' the Prodeegal—he! he! So ye've seen yer auld dad at last, and the last; the proper place, say ye, for yer father—he! he! Eh, lad, but I'm blithe to see ye. D'ye mind when we was last thegither? Ye was kneelin' on ma chest: ‘Your time's come, dad,' says you, and wangs me o'er the face—he! he! I mind it as if 'twas yesterday. Weel, weel, we'll say nae mair 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!”

Dusk was merging into darkness when the Master and Andrew reached the Dalesman's Daughter. It had been long dark when they emerged from the cosy parlour of the inn and plunged out into the night.

As they crossed the Silver Lea and trudged over that familiar ground, where a fortnight since had been fought out the battle of the Cup, the wind fluttered past them in spasmodic gasps.

“There's trouble in the wind,” said the Master.

“Ay,” answered his laconic son.

All day there had been no breath of air, and the sky dangerously blue. But now a world of black was surging up from the horizon, smothering the star-lit night; and small dark clouds, like puffs of smoke, detaching themselves from the main body, were driving tempestuously forward—the vanguard of the storm.

In the distance was a low rumbling like heavy tumbrils on the floor of heaven. All about, the wind sounded hollow like a mighty scythe on corn. The air was oppressed with a leaden blackness—no glimmer of light on any hand; and as they began the ascent of the Pass they reached out blind hands to feel along the rock-face.

A sea-fret, cool and wetting, fell. A few big rain-drops splashed heavily down. The wind rose with a leap and roared past them up the rocky track. And the water-gates of heaven were flung wide.

Wet and weary, they battled on; thinking sometimes of the cosy parlour behind; sometimes of the home in front; wondering whether Maggie, in flat contradiction of her father's orders, would be up to welcome them; or whether Owd Bob would come out to meet them.

The wind volleyed past them like salvoes of artillery. The rain stormed at them from above; spat at them from the rock-face; and leapt up at them from their feet.

Once they halted for a moment, finding a miserable shelter in a crevice of the rock.

“It's a Black Killer's night,” panted the Master. “I reck'n he's oot.”

“Ay,” the boy gasped, “reck'n he is.”

Up and up they climbed through the blackness, blind and buffeted. The eternal thunder of the rain was all about them; the clamour of the gale above; and far beneath, the roar of angry waters.

Once, in a lull in the storm, the Master turned and looked back into the blackness along the path they had come.

“Did ye hear onythin'?” he roared above the muffled soughing of the wind.

“Nay!” Andrew shouted back.

“I thowt I heard a step!” the Master cried, peering down. But nothing could he see.

Then the wind leaped to life again like a giant from his sleep, drowning all sound with its hurricane voice; and they turned and bent to their task again.

Nearing the summit, the Master turned once more.

“There it was again!” he called; but his words were swept away on the storm; and they buckled to the struggle afresh.

Ever and anon the moon gleamed down through the riot of tossing sky. Then they could see the wet wall above them, with the water tumbling down its sheer face; and far below, in the roaring gutter of the Pass a brown-stained torrent. Hardly, however, had they time to glance around when a mass of cloud would hurry jealously up, and all again was blackness and noise.

At length, nigh spent, they topped the last and steepest pitch of the Pass, and emerged into the Devil's Bowl. There, overcome with their exertions, they flung themselves on to the soaking ground to draw breath.

Behind them, the wind rushed with a sullen roar up the funnel of the Pass. It screamed above them as though ten million devils were a-horse; and blurted out on to the wild Marches beyond.

As they lay there, still panting, the moon gleamed down in momentary graciousness. In front, through the lashing rain, they could discern the hillocks that squat, hag-like, round the Devil's Bowl; and lying in its bosom, its white waters, usually so still, ploughed now into a thousand furrows, the Lone Tarn.

The Master raised his head and craned forward at the ghostly scene. Of a sudden he reared himself on to his arms, and stayed motionless awhile. Then he dropped as though dead, forcing down Andrew with an iron hand.

“Lad, did'st see?” he whispered.

“Nay: what was't?” the boy replied, roused by his father's tone.

“There!”

But as the Master pointed forward, a blue of cloud intervened and all was dark. Quickly it passed; and again the lantern of the night shone down. And Andrew, looking with all his eyes, saw indeed.

There, in front, by the fretting waters of the Tarn, packed in a solid phalanx, with every head turned in the same direction, was a flock of sheep. They were motionless, all-intent, staring with horror-bulging eyes. A column of steam rose from their bodies into the rain-pierced air. Panting and palpitating, yet they stood with their backs to the water, as though determined to sell their lives dearly. Beyond them, not fifty yards away, crouched a hump-backed boulder, casting a long misshapen shadow in the moonlight. And be­neath it were two black objects, one struggling feebly.

“The Killer!” gasped the boy, and, all ablaze with excitement, began forging forward.

“Steady, lad, steady!” urged his father, dropping a restraining hand on the boy's shoulder.

Above them a huddle of clouds flung in furious rout across the night, and the moon was veiled.

“Follow, lad!” ordered the Master, and began to crawl silently forward. As stealthily Andrew pursued. And over the sodden ground they crept, one behind the other, like two night-hawks on some foul errand.