The Revellers

by Louis Tracy

  Produced by D Alexander and the Online DistributedProofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file wasproduced from images generously made available by TheInternet Archive)

  THE REVELLERS

  BY LOUIS TRACY

  AUTHOR OF "THE WINGS OF THE MORNING," "THE POSTMASTER'S DAUGHTER," ETC., ETC.

  NEW YORK EDWARD J. CLODE

  Copyright, 1917, by EDWARD J. CLODE

  All rights reserved

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  _By_ LOUIS TRACY

  THE WINGS OF THE MORNING THE CAPTAIN OF THE KANSAS THE WHEEL O' FORTUNE A SON OF THE IMMORTALS CYNTHIA'S CHAUFFEUR THE MESSAGE THE STOWAWAY THE PILLAR OF LIGHT THE SILENT BARRIER THE "MIND THE PAINT" GIRL ONE WONDERFUL NIGHT THE TERMS OF SURRENDER FLOWER OF THE GORSE THE RED YEAR THE GREAT MOGUL MIRABEL'S ISLAND THE DAY OF WRATH HIS UNKNOWN WIFE THE POSTMASTER'S DAUGHTER THE REVELLERS

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER PAGE

  I. QUESTIONINGS 1 II. STRANGERS, INDEED 13 III. THE SEEDS OF MISCHIEF 27 IV. THE FEAST 40 V. "IT IS THE FIRST STEP THAT COUNTS" 55 VI. WHEREIN THE RED BLOOD FLOWS 71 VII. GEORGE PICKERING PLAYS THE MAN 88 VIII. SHOWING HOW MARTIN'S HORIZON WIDENS 100 IX. THE WILDCAT 115 X. DEEPENING SHADOWS 128 XI. FOR ONE, THE NIGHT; FOR ANOTHER, THE DAWN 140 XII. A FRIENDLY ARGUMENT 153 XIII. A DYING DEPOSITION 172 XIV. THE STORM 190 XV. THE UNWRITTEN LAW 206 XVI. UNDERCURRENTS 225 XVII. TWO MOORLAND EPISODES 243 XVIII. THE SEVEN FULL YEARS 272 XIX. OUT OF THE MISTS 292 XX. THE RIGOR OF THE GAME 307 XXI. NEARING THE END 323

  CHAPTER I

  QUESTIONINGS

  "And the king was much moved, and went up to the chamber over the gate,and wept: and as he went, thus he said, O my son Absalom, my son, my sonAbsalom! Would God I had died for thee, O Absalom, my son, my son!"

  The voice of the reader was strident, his utterance uneven, his dictionilliterate. Yet he concluded the 18th chapter of the second Book ofSamuel with an unctuous force born of long familiarity with the text.His laborious drone revealed no consciousness of the humanism of theJewish King. To suggest that the Bible contained a mine of literature,a series of stories of surpassing interest, portraying as truthfullythe lives of the men and women of to-day as of the nomad race which apersonal God led through the wilderness, would have provoked from thisman's mouth a sluggish flood of protest. The slow-moving lips, settight after each syllabic struggle, the shaggy eyebrows overhanginghorn-rimmed spectacles, the beetling forehead and bull-like head sunkbetween massive shoulders, the very clutch of the big hands on the Bibleheld stiffly at a distance, bespoke a triumphant dogmatism that found aslittle actuality in the heartbroken cry of David as in a description ofa seven-branched candlestick.

  The boy who listened wondered why people should "think such a lotabout" high priests and kings who died so long ago. David wasinteresting enough as a youth. The slaying of Goliath, the charming ofSaul with sweet music on a harp, appealed to the vivid, if unformed,imagination of fourteen. But the temptation of the man, the splendidefforts of the monarch to rule a peevish people--these were lost on him.Worse, they wearied him, because, as it happened, he had a reasoningbrain.

  He refused to credit all that he heard. It was hard to believe that anyman's hair could catch in an oak so that he should be lifted up betweenheaven and earth, merely because he rode beneath the tree on the back ofa mule. This sounded like the language of exaggeration, and sturdylittle Martin Court Bolland hated exaggeration.

  Again, he took the winged words literally, and the ease with whichDavid saw, heard, spoke to the Lord was disturbing. Such things weremanifestly impossible if David resembled other men, and that there weresimilarities between the ruler of Israel and certain male inhabitants ofElmsdale was suggested by numberless episodes of the very human historywrit in the Book of Kings.

  "The Lord" was a terrific personality to Martin--a personality seatedon thunder-cloud, of which the upper rim of gold and silver, shininggloriously against a cerulean sky, was Heaven, and the sullen blacknessbeneath, from which thunder bellowed and lightning flashed, was Hell.How could a mere man, one who pursued women like a too susceptibleplowman, one who "smote" his fellows, and "kissed" them, and ate withthem, hold instant communion with the tremendous Unseen, the ruler ofsun and storm, the mover of worlds?

  "David inquired of the Lord"; "David said to the Lord"; "The Lordanswered unto David"--these phrases tortured a busy intelligence, andcaused the big brown eyes to flash restlessly toward the distant hills,while quick ears and retentive brain paid close heed to the text.

  For it was the word, not the spirit, that John Bolland insisted on. Theboy knew too well the penalty of forgetfulness. During half an hour,from five o'clock each day, he was led drearily through the Sacred Book;if he failed to answer correctly the five minutes' questioning whichfollowed, the lesson was repeated, verse for verse, again, and yetagain, as a punishment.

  At half-past four o'clock the high tea of a north-country farmhouse wasserved. Then the huge Bible was produced solemnly, and no stress ofcircumstances, no temporary call of other business, was permitted tointerfere with this daily task. At times, Bolland would be absent atfairs or detained in some distant portion of the farm. But Martin's"portion of the Scriptures" would be marked for careful reading, andsevere corporal chastisement corrected any negligence. Such was the oldfarmer's mania in this regard that his portly, kind-hearted wife becameas strict as John himself in supervising the boy's lesson, merelybecause she dreaded the scene that would follow the slightest lapse.

  So Martin could answer glibly that Ahimaaz was the son of Zadok andthat Joab plunged three darts into Absalom's heart while the scapegracedangled from the oak. Of the love that David bore his son, of thestatecraft that impelled a servant of Israel to slay the disturber ofthe national peace, there was never a hint. Bolland's stark Gospel washarshly definite. There was no channel in his gnarled soul for theturbulent life-stream flowing through the ancient text.

  The cold-blooded murder of Absalom, it is true, induced in the boy'smind a certain degree of belief in the narrative, a belief somewhatstrained by the manner of Absalom's capture. Through his brain danced a_tableau vivant_ of the scene in the wood. He saw the gayly caparisonedmule gallop madly away, leaving its rider struggling with desperate armsto free his hair from the rough grasp of the oak.

  Then, through the trees came a startled man-at-arms, who ran back andbrought one other, a stately warrior in accouterments that shone likesilver. A squabble arose between them as to the exact nature of theKing's order concerning this same Absalom, but it was speedilydetermined by the leader, Joab, snatching three arrows from thesoldier's quiver and plunging them viciously, one after the other, intothe breast of the man hanging between the heaven and the earth.

  Martin wondered if Absalom spoke to Joab. Did he cry for mercy? Didhis eyes glare awfully at his relentless foe? Did he squeal pitifulgibberish like Tom Chandler did when he chopped off his fingers in thehay-cutter? How beastly it must be to be suspended by your own hair, andsee a man come forward with three barbed darts which he sticks into yourpalpitating bosom, probably cursing you the while!

  And then appeared from the depths of the wood ten young men, who behavedlike cowardly savages, for they hacked the poor corpse with sword a
ndspear, and made mock of a gallant if erring soldier who would have slainthem all if he met them on equal terms.

  This was the picture that flitted before the boy's eyes, and for oneinstant his tongue forgot its habitual restraint.

  "Father," he said, "why didn't David ask God to save his son, if hewished him to live?"

  "Nay, lad, I doan't knoae. You mun listen te what's written i' t'Book--no more an' no less. I doan't ho'd wi' their commentaries an'explanations, an' what oor passon calls anilitical disquisitions. Tak't' Word as it stands. That's all 'at any man wants."

  Now, be it observed that the boy used good English, whereas the manspoke in the broad dialect of the dales. Moreover, Bolland, anout-and-out Dissenter, was clannish enough to speak of "our" parson,meaning thereby the vicar of the parish, a gentleman whom he held atarm's length in politics and religion.

  The latter discrepancy was a mere village colloquialism; the other--themarked difference between father and son--was startling, not alone byreason of their varying speech, but by the queer contrast they offeredin manners and appearance.

  Bolland was a typical yeoman of the moor edge, a tall, strong man,twisted and bent like the oak which betrayed Absalom, slow in hismovements, heavy of foot, and clothed in brown corduroy which resembledcuriously the weatherbeaten bark of a tree. There was a rugged dignityin his bearded face, and the huge spectacles he had now pushed high upon his forehead lent a semblance of greater age than he could lay claimto. Yet was he a lineal descendant of Gurth, the swineherd, Gurth,uncouth and unidealized.

  The boy, a sturdy, country-built youngster in figure and attire, had aface of much promise. His brow was lofty and open, his mouth firm andwell formed, his eyes fearless, if a trifle dreamy at times. His hands,too, were not those of a farmer's son. Strong they were and scarred withmuch use, but the fingers tapered elegantly, and the thumbs were longand straight.

  Certainly, the heavy-browed farmer, with his drooping nether lip andclumsy spatulate digits, had not bequeathed these bucolic attributes tohis son. As they sat there, in the cheerful kitchen where the sunbeamsfell on sanded floor and danced on the burnished contents of a full"dresser," they presented a dissimilarity that was an outrage onheredity.

  Usually, the reading ended, Martin effaced himself by way of the backdoor. Thence, through a garden orchard that skirted the farmyard, hewould run across a meadow, jump two hedges into the lane which led backto the village street, and so reach the green where the children playedafter school hours.

  He was forced early to practice a degree of dissimulation. Though hehated a lie, he at least acted a reverent appreciation of the chapterjust perused. His boyish impulses lay with the cricketers, theminnow-catchers, the players of prisoner's base, the joyous patrons ofwell-worn "pitch" and gurgling brook. But he knew that the slightestindication of grudging this daily half-hour would mean the confiscationof the free romp until supper-time at half-past eight. So he paid heedto the lesson, and won high praise from his preceptor in theoft-expressed opinion:

  "Martin will make a rare man i' time."

  To-day he did not hurry away as usual. For one reason, he was goingwith a gamekeeper to see some ferreting at six o'clock, and there wasplenty of time; for another, it thrilled him to find that there wereepisodes in the Bible quite as exciting as any in the pages of "TheScalp-Hunters," a forbidden work now hidden with others in the storeof dried bracken at the back of the cow-byre.

  So he said rather carelessly: "I wonder if he kicked?"

  "You wunner if wheae kicked?" came the slow response.

  "Absalom, when Joab stabbed him. The other day, when the pigs werekilled, they all kicked like mad."

  Bolland laid down the Bible and glanced at Martin with a puzzled air. Hewas not annoyed or even surprised at the unlooked-for deduction. It hadsimply never occurred to him that one might read the Bible and constructactualities from the plain-spoken text.

  "Hoo div' I knoae?" he said calmly; "it says nowt about it i' t'chapter."

  Then Martin awoke with a start. He saw how nearly he had betrayedhimself a second time, how ready were the lips to utter ungovernedthoughts.

  He flushed slightly.

  "Is that all for to-day, father?" he said.

  Before Bolland could answer, there came a knock at the door.

  "See wheae that is," said the farmer, readjusting his spectacles.

  A big, hearty-looking young man entered. He wore clothes of a sportingcut and carried a hunting-crop, with the long lash gathered in hisfingers.

  "Oah, it's you, is it, Mr. Pickerin'?" said Bolland, and Martin's quickears caught a note of restraint, almost of hostility, in the question.

  "Yes, Mr. Bolland, an' how are ye?" was the more friendly greeting. "Ijust dropped in to have a settlement about that beast."

  "A sattlement! What soart o' sattlement?"

  The visitor sat down, uninvited, and produced some papers from hispocket.

  "Well, Mr. Bolland," he said quietly, "it's not more'n four months sinceI gave you sixty pounds for a thoroughbred shorthorn, supposed to be incalf to Bainesse Boy the Third."

  "Right enough, Mr. Pickerin'. You've gotten t' certificates and t'receipt for t' stud fee."

  Martin detected the latent animosity in both voices. The reiterated useof the prefix "Mr." was an exaggerated politeness that boded a dispute.

  "Receipts, certificates!" cried Pickering testily. "What good are theyto me? She cannot carry a calf. For all the use I can make of her, Imight as well have thrown the money in the fire."

  "Eh, but she's a well-bred 'un," said Bolland, with sapient head-shake.

  "She might be a first-prize winner at the Royal by her shape andmarkings; but, as matters stand, she'll bring only fifteen pounds from abutcher. I stand to lose forty-five pounds by the bargain."

  "You canna fly i' t' feaece o' Providence, Mr. Pickerin'."

  "Providence has little to do with it, I fancy. I can sell her tosomebody else, if I like to work a swindle with her. I had my doubts atthe time that she was too cheap."

  John Bolland rose. His red face was dusky with anger, and it sent a pangthrough Martin's heart to see something of fear there, too.

  "Noo, what are ye drivin' at?" he growled, speaking with ominouscalmness.

  "You know well enough," came the straight answer. "The poor thing hassomething wrong with her, and she will never hold a calf. Look here,Bolland, meet me fairly in the matter. Either give me back twentypounds, and we'll cry 'quits,' or sell me another next spring at thesame price, and I'll take my luck."

  Perhaps this _via media_ might have been adopted had it presented itselfearlier. But the word "swindle" stuck in the farmer's throat, and hesank back into his chair.

  "Nay, nay," he said. "A bargain's a bargain. You've gotten t'papers----"

  It was the buyer's turn to rise.

  "To the devil with you and your papers!" he shouted. "Do you think Icame here without making sure of my facts? Twice has this cow been incalf in your byre, and each time she missed. You knew her failing, andsold her under false pretenses. Of course, I cannot prove it, or I wouldhave the law of you; but I did think you would act squarely."

  For some reason the elder Bolland was in a towering rage. Martin hadnever before seen him so angry, and the boy was perplexed by theknowledge that what Pickering said was quite true.

  "I'll not be sworn at nor threatened wi' t' law in my own house,"bellowed the farmer. "Get out! Look tiv' your own business an' leave mete follow mine."

  Pickering, too, was in a mighty temper. He took a half stride forwardand shook out the thong of the whip.

  "You psalm-singing humbug!" he thundered. "If you were a youngerman----"

  Martin jumped between them; his right hand clenched a heavy kitchenpoker.

  Pickering half turned to the door with a bitter laugh.

  "All right, my young cub!" he shouted. "I'm not such a fool, thankgoodness, as to make bad worse. It's lucky for you, boy, that you arenot of the same kidney as that old ranter there. Ca
tch me ever havingmore to do with any of his breed."

  "An' what affair is it of yours, Mr. Pickerin', who the boy belongs to?If all tales be true, _you_ can't afford to throw stones at otherfolks's glass houses!"

  Mrs. Bolland, stout, hooded, aproned, and fiery red in face, had comefrom the dairy, and now took a hand in the argument.

  Pickering, annoyed at the unlooked-for presence of a woman, saidsternly:

  "Talk to your husband, not to me, ma'am. He wronged me by getting threetimes the value for a useless beast, and if you can convince him that hetook an unfair advantage, I'm willing, even now----"

  But Mrs. Bolland had caught the flicker of amazement in Martin's eye andwas not to be mollified.

  "Who are you, I'd like to know?" she shrilled, "coomin' te one's housean' scandalizin' us? A nice thing, to be sure, for a man like you tocall John Bolland a wrongdoer. The cow won't calve, won't she? 'Tis adispensation on you, George Pickerin'. You're payin' for yer ownmisdeeds. There's plenty i' Elmsdale wheae ken your char-ak-ter, let metell you that. What's become o' Betsy Thwaites?"

  But Pickering had resigned the contest. He was striding toward the"Black Lion," where a dogcart awaited him, and he laughed to himself asthe flood of vituperation swelled from the door of the farm.

  "Gad!" he muttered, "how these women must cackle in the market! One oldcow is hardly worth so much fuss!"

  Still smiling at the storm he had raised, he gathered the reins, gaveFred, the ostler, a sixpence, and would have driven off had he not seena pretty serving-maid gazing out through an upper window. Her facelooked familiar.

  "Hello!" he cried. "You and I know each other, don't we?"

  "No, we doan't; an' we're not likely to," was the pert reply.

  "Eh, my! What have I done now?"

  "Nowt to me, but my sister is Betsy Thwaites."

  "The deuce she is! Betsy isn't half as nice-looking as you."

  "More shame on you that says it."

  "But, my dear girl, one should tell the truth and shame the devil."

  "Just listen to him!" Yet the window was raised a little higher, andthe girl leaned out, for Pickering was a handsome man, with a tremendousreputation for gallantry of a somewhat pronounced type.

  Fred, the stable help, struck the cob smartly with his open hand.Pickering swore, and bade him leave the mare alone and be off.

  "I was sorry for Betsy," he said, when the prancing pony was quieted,"but she and I agreed to differ. I got her a place at Hereford, and hopeshe'll be married soon."

  "You'll get me no place at Hereford, Mr. Pickerin'"--this with acoquettish toss of the head.

  "Of course not. When is the feast here?"

  "Next Monday it starts."

  "Very well. Good-by. I'll see you on Monday."

  He blew her a kiss, and she laughed. As the smart turnout rattledthrough the village she looked after him.

  "Betsy always did say he was such a man," she murmured. "I'll smack hisfeaece, though, if he comes near me a-Monday."

  And Fred, leaning sulkily over the yard gate, spat viciously onPickering's sixpence.

  "Coomin' here for t' feaest, is he?" he growled. "Happen he'd better bidei' Nottonby."