The Revellers

by Louis Tracy

  CHAPTER XI

  FOR ONE, THE NIGHT; FOR ANOTHER, THE DAWN

  So Elmsdale was given another thrill, and a lasting one. The Feast wasruined. Not a man or a woman had heart for enjoyment. If a child soughta penny, it was chided sharply and asked what it meant by gadding about"when poor George Pickerin' an' that lass of his were in such trouble."

  Martin heard the news while standing outside the boxing booth, waitingfor the sparring competition to commence. He went in, it is true, andsaw some hard hitting, but the tent was nearly empty. When he and JimBates came out an hour later, Elmsdale was a place of mourning.

  A series of exciting events, each crowding on its predecessor's heels asthough some diabolical agency had resolved to disturb the community, hadroused the hamlet from its torpor.

  Five slow-moving years had passed since the village had been stirred sodeeply. Then it endured a fortnight's epidemic of suicide. A travelingtinker began the uncanny cycle. On a fine summer's day he was repairinghis kettles on a corner of the green, when he was observed to leave hislittle handcart and to go into a neighboring wood. He did not return.Search next day discovered him swaying from a branch of a tall tree,looking like some forlorn scarecrow suspended there by a practicaljoker.

  The following morning a soldier on furlough, one of the very men whohelped to cut down the tinker's body, went into a cow-house at the backof his mother's cottage and suspended himself from a rafter. An oddfeature of this man's exit was that the rope had yielded so much thathis feet rested on the ground. Before the hanging he had actually cutletters out of his red-cloth tunic and formed the word, "Farewell" in asemicircle on the stable floor. A girl soon afterwards selected themill-dam for a consoling plunge; and, to crown all, the vicar, Mr.Herbert's forerunner, having received a telegram announcing the failureof a company in which he had invested some money, opened his jugularvein with a sharp scissors. That these tragedies should happen within afortnight in a community of less than three hundred people was enough togive a life-insurance actuary an attack of hysteria.

  But each lacked the dramatic flavor attached to the ill-governed passionof Betsy Thwaites and her fickle swain. Kitty was known to all inElmsdale, Betsy to few, but George Pickering was a popular manthroughout the whole countryside. It was sensation enough that one ofhis many amours should result in an episode more typical of Paris thanof an English Sleepy Hollow. But the sequel--the marriage of thiswealthy gentleman-farmer to a mere dairymaid, followed by his death froma wound inflicted by the bride-to-be--this was undiluted melodrama drawnfrom the repertoire of the Petit Guignol.

  That night the story spread over England. A reporter from the_Messenger_ came to Elmsdale to glean the exact facts as to Mr.Pickering's "accident." Owing to the peculiar circumstances, he,perforce, showed much discretion in compiling the story telegraphed tothe Press Association. Not even the use of that magic word "alleged"would enable him to charge Betsy Thwaites with attempted murder, afterthe police had apparently withdrawn the accusation. But he contrived toretail the legend by throwing utter discredit on it, and the rest wasplain sailing. Moreover, he was a smart young man. He pondered deeplyafter dispatching the message. He was employed on the staff of a localweekly newspaper, so his traveling allowance was limited to athird-class return ticket and a shilling for "tea." Yet he decided toremain in Elmsdale at his own expense. The departure of the GermanGovernment agent for another horse-fair left a vacant bedroom at the"Black Lion." This he secured. He foresaw a golden harvest.

  Luck favored him. Conversing with a village Solon in the bar, he caughta remark that "John Bolland's lad" would be an important witness at theinquest. Of course, he made inquiries and was favored with a full andaccurate account of the wanderings of the farmer and his wife in Londonthirteen years earlier, together with their adoption of the baby whichhad literally fallen from the skies. To the country journalist, FleetStreet is the Mecca of his earthly pilgrimage, and St. Martin's Court,Ludgate Hill, was near enough to newspaperdom to be sacred ground. Thevery name of the boy smacked of "copy."

  John Bolland, lumbering out of the stockyard at tea-time, encounteredDr. MacGregor. The farmer had been thinking hard while striding throughhis diminished cornfields, and crumbling ears of wheat, oats, and barleyin his strong hands to ascertain the exact date when they would be ripe.Already some of his neighbors were busy, but John was more anxious aboutthe condition of the straw than the forwardness of the grain; moreover,men and women did not work so well during feast-time. Next week he wouldobtain full measure for his money.

  "I reckon Martin'll soon be fit?" he said.

  The doctor nodded.

  "He's a bright lad, yon?" went on the farmer.

  "Yes. What are you going to make of him?"

  Dr. MacGregor knew the ways of Elmsdale folk. They required leading upto a subject by judicious questioning. Rarely would they unburden theirminds by direct statements.

  "That's what's worryin' me," said John slowly. "What d'ye think yersen,docthor?"

  "It is hard to say. It all hinges on what you intend doing for him,Bolland. He is not your son. If he has to depend on his own resourceswhen he's a man, teach him a useful trade. No matter how able he may be,that will never come amiss."

  The farmer gazed around. As men counted in that locality, he was rich,not in hard cash, but in lands, stock, and tenements. His expenses didnot grow proportionately with his earnings. He ate and dressed andeconomized now as on the day when Martha and he faced the worldtogether, with the White House and its small meadows their onlybelongings. In a few years the produce of his shorthorn herd alonewould bring in hundreds annually, and his Cleveland bays were notedthroughout the county.

  He took the doctor's hint.

  "I've nayther chick nor child but Martin," he said. "When Martha an' meare gone te t' Lord, all that we hev'll be Martin's. That's settled langsyne. I med me will four years agone last Easter."

  There was something behind this, and MacGregor probed again.

  "Isn't he cut out for a farmer?"

  "I hae me doots," was the cautious answer.

  The doctor waited, so John continued.

  "I was sair set on t' lad being a minister. But I judge it's not t'Lord's will. He's of a rovin' stock, I fancy. When he's a man, Elmsdalewon't be big eneuf te hold him. He cooms frae Lunnon, an' te Lunnonhe'll gang. It's in his feaece. Lunnon's a bad pleaece for a youngsterwheae kens nowt but t' ways o' moor folk, docthor."

  Then the other laughed.

  "In a word, Bolland, you have made up your mind, and want me to agreewith you. Of course, if Martin succeeds you, and you have read hischaracter aright, there is but one line open. Send him to a good school,leave the choice of a profession to his more cultivated mind, and tie upyour property so that it cannot be sold and wasted in a young man'sfolly. When he is forty he may be glad to come back to Elmsdale and givethanks for your foresight on his bended knees. In any event, a littleextra book lore will make him none the worse stock-raiser. Eh, is thatwhat you think?"

  "You're a sound man, docthor. There's times I wunner hoo it happens yecling te sike nonsense as that mad Dutchman----"

  MacGregor laughed again, and nudged his groom's arm as a signal to driveon. He favored neither church nor chapel, but claimed a devotedadherence to the doctrines of Emanuel Swedenborg, thus forming a sectunto himself. There was not a Swedenborgian temple within a hundredmiles. Mayhap the doctor's theological views had a geographicalfoundation.

  The farmer lumbered across the street and took a corner of the crowdedtea-table. Mrs. Summersgill was entertaining the company with adescription of George Pickering's estate.

  "It's a meracle, that's what it is!" she exclaimed. "Te think of BetsyThwaites livin' i' style in yon fine hoos! There's a revenue o' treesquarther of a mile long, an' my husband sez t' high-lyin' land grows t'best wuts (oats) i' t' county. An' she's got it by a prod wi' acarving-knife, while a poor body like me hez te scrat sae hard for alivin' that me fingers are worn te t' bone!"

  Mrs. Summers
gill weighed sixteen stone, but she was heedless of satire.Her eye fell on Martin, eating silently, but well.

  "Some folks git their bread easy, I'm sure," she went on. "Ivver sen Iwas a bit lass I've tewed and wrowt an' mead sike deed ower spendin'hawpenny, whiles uthers hev a silver spoon thrust i' their gob frae t'time they're born!"

  "T' Lord gives, an' t' Lord taks away. Ye munnot fly i' t' feaece o' t'Lord," said Bolland.

  "I'm not built for flyin' anywhere," cried the old lady. "I wish I was.'Tis flighty 'uns as wins nowadays. Look at Betsy Thwaites! Look at Mrs.Saumarez! She mun hae gotten her money varra simple te fling it about asshe does. My man telt me that her little gal, t' other neet----"

  "Yer cup's empty, Mrs. Summersgill," put in Martha quickly. "Bless myheart, ye talk an' eat nowt. Speakin' o' Mrs. Saumarez, hez anyone heerdif she's better? One o' Miss Walker's maids said she was poorly."

  Martin caught his mother's eye, and rose. He went upstairs; the farmerfollowed him. The two sat near the window; on the broad ledge reposedthe Bible; but Bolland did not open the book. He laid his hand on itreverently and looked at the boy.

  "Martin," he began, "yer muther tells me that Benson med yer mind sairby grabbin' te t' squire aboot yer bringin' up. Nay, lad, ye needn't sayowt. 'Tis no secret. We on'y kept it frae ye for yer good. Anyhow, 'tiskent noo, an' there's nae need te chew on 't. What troubled me maist wasyer muther's defiance when I was minded te punish ye for bein' outlate."

  "It won't occur again, sir," said Martin quietly.

  "Mebbe. T' spirit is willin', but t' flesh is wake. Noo, I want astraight answer te a straight question. Are these Bible lessons te yerlikin'?"

  It was so rare for the farmer to speak in this downright fashion thatthe boy was alarmed. He knew not what lay behind; but he had not earnedhis reputation for honesty on insufficient grounds.

  "No, they're not," he said.

  Bolland groaned. "T' minister said so. Why not?"

  "I can hardly explain. For one thing, I don't understand what I read.And often I would like to be out in the fields or on the moor when I'mforced to be here. All the same, I do try hard, and if I thought itwould please you and mother, I'd do much more than give up half an houra day."

  "Ay, ay. 'Tis compulsion, not love. I telt t' minister that Paul urgedinsistence in season an' out o' season, but he held that the teachin'applied te doctrine, an' not te Bible lessons for t' young. Well,Martin, I've weighed this thing, an' not without prayer. I've seen manya field spoiled by bad farmin', an', when yer muther calls my own hiredmen te help her ageaen me; when a lad like you goes fightin' younggentlemen aboot a lass; when yon Frenchified ninny eggs ye on te spendmoney like watter, an' yer muther gies ye t' brass next day te pay Mrs.Saumarez, lest it should reach my ears--why, I've coom te believe thatmy teachin' is mistakken."

  Martin was petrified at hearing his delinquencies laid bare in thismanner. He had not realized that the extravagant display of Monday mustevoke comment in a small village, and that Bolland could not fail tointerpret correctly his wife's anxiety to hush up all reference to it.He blushed and held his tongue, for the farmer was speaking again.

  "T' upshot of all this is that I've sought counsel. Ye're an honest lad,I will say that fer ye, but ye're a lad differin' frae those of yer agei' Elmsdale. If all goes well wi' me, ye'll nivver want food norlodgin', but an idle man is a wicked man, nine times out o' ten, an'I'd like te see ye sattled i' summat afore I go te my rest. You're notcut out fer t' ministry, ye're none for farmin', an' I'd sooner see yedead than dancin' around t' countryside after women, like poor GeorgePickerin'. Soa ye mun gang te college an' sharpen yer wits, an' happenfower or five years o' delvin' i' books'll shape yer life i' differentgait te owt I can see at this minnit. What think you on't?"

  "Oh, I should like it better than anything else in the world."

  The boy's eyes sparkled at this most unlooked-for announcement. Neverbefore had his heart so gone out to the rugged old man whose sternglance was now searching him through the horn-rimmed spectacles.

  What magician had transformed John Bolland? Was it possible that beneaththe patriarchial inflexibility of the rugged farmer's character therelay a spring of human tenderness, a clear fountain hidden by half acentury of toil and narrow religion, but now unearthed forcibly bycircumstances stronger than the man himself? The boy could not put thesequestions into words. He was too young to understand even the meaning ofpsychological analysis. He could only sit there mute, stunned by theglory of the unexpected promise.

  Of course, if a thinker like Dr. MacGregor were aware of all the facts,he would have seen that the rebellion of Martha had been a lightningstroke. The few winged words she shot at her husband on that memorablenight had penetrated deeper than she thought. It chanced, too, that therevivalist preacher whom Bolland took into his confidence was a man ofsound common sense, and much more acute in private life than anyonecould imagine who witnessed his methods of hammering the Gospel intothe dullards of the village. He it was who advised a timely diminutionof devotional exercises which were likely to become distasteful to aspirited lad. He recommended the farmer to educate Martin beyond thecommon run, while the choice of a profession might be left to maturerconsideration. Among the many influences conspiring in that hour to moldthe boy's future life, none was more wholesome than that of thetub-thumping preacher.

  Bolland seemed to be gratified by Martin's tongue-tied enthusiasm.

  "Well," he said, rising. "Noo my hand's te t' plow I'll keep it there.Remember, Martin, when ye tak te study t' Word o' yer own accord, ye canstart at t' second chapter o' t' Third Book o' Kings. I'll be throng wi't' harvest until t' middle o' September, but I'll ax Mr. Herbert terecommend a good school. He's a fair man, if he does lean ower much tet' Romans. Soa, fer t' next few days, run wild an' enjoy yersen. Happenye'll never hae as happy a time again."

  He patted the boy's head, a rare sign of sentiment, and walked heavilyout of the room. Martin saw him cross the road and clout a stable-boy'sears because the yard was not swept clean. Then he called to hisforeman, and the two went off to the low-lying meadows. Bolland had beenturning over in his mind Mrs. Saumarez's remarks about draining; theywere worthy of consideration and, perhaps, of experiment.

  Martin remained standing at the window. So he was to leave Elmsdale, goout into the wide world beyond the hills, mix with people who spoke andacted and moved like the great ones of whom he had read in books. Hewas glad of it; oh, so glad! He would learn Greek and Latin, French andGerman. No longer would the queer-looking words trouble his eyes. Theirmeaning would be made clear to his understanding. He would soon acquirethat nameless manner of which the squire, the vicar, Mrs. Saumarez, theyoung university students he met yesterday, possessed the secret. ElsieHerbert had it, and Angele was veneered with it, though in her case heknew quite well that the polish was only skin deep.

  It was what he had longed for with all his heart, yet now that thelonging was to be appeased he had never felt more drawn to his parents;his only by adoption, it was true; but nevertheless father and mother byevery tie known to him.

  By the way, whose child was he? No one had told him the literal mannerin which he fell into the hands of the Bollands. Probably his realprogenitors were dead long since. Were it not for the kindness of thefarmer and his wife he might have been reared in that awful place, the"Union," of which the poverty-stricken old people in the parish spokewith such dread. His own folk must have been poor. Those who were welloff were fond of their children and loth to part from them. Well, hemust be a real son to John and Martha Bolland. They should have reasonto be proud of him. He would do nothing to disgrace their honored name.

  What was it his father said just now? When he studied the Bible of hisown accord he might begin at the second chapter of the Second Book ofKings.

  It would please the old man to know that he gave the first moment ofliberty to reading the Word which was held so precious. He opened thebook at the page where the long, narrow strip of black silk marked theclose of the las
t lesson. For the first time in his life the boy broughtto bear on the task an unaided and sympathetic intelligence, and this iswhat he read:

  "Now the days of David drew nigh that he should die; and he charged Solomon his son, saying,

  "I go the way of all the earth: be thou strong therefore, and shew thyself a man;

  "And keep the charge of the Lord thy God, to walk in his ways, to keep his statutes, and his commandments, and his judgments, and his testimonies, as it is written in the law of Moses, that thou mayest prosper in all that thou doest, and whithersoever thou turnest thyself:

  "That the Lord may continue his word which he spake concerning me, saying, If thy children take heed to their way, to walk before me in truth with all their heart and with all their soul, there shall not fail thee (said he) a man on the throne of Israel."

  Not even a boy of fourteen could peruse these words unmoved, coming, asthey did, after the memorable interview with Bolland. The black lettersseemed to Martin to have fiery edges. They burnt themselves into hisbrain. In years to come they were fated to stand out unbidden before theeyes of his soul many a time and oft.

  He read on, but soon experienced the old puzzled feeling when heencountered the legacy of revenge which David bequeathed to his sonafter delivering that inspired message. It reminded Martin of thefarmer's dignified and quite noble-hearted renunciation of his owndreams in order to follow what he thought was the better way, to besucceeded by his passage to the farm buildings across the road in orderto box the ears of a lazy hind.

  Ere he closed the book, Martin went over the opening verses of thechapter. He promised himself to obey the injunctions therein contained,and it was with a host of unformed ideals churning in his brain that hedescended the stairs.

  Mrs. Bolland was gazing through the front door.

  "Mercy on us," she cried, "if there isn't Mrs. Saumarez coomin' doon t'road wi' t' nuss an' her little gell. An' don't she look ill, poorthing! I'll lay owt she hez eaten summat as disagreed wi' her, an' itgev her a bilious attack."

  "Dod, ay," said Mrs. Summersgill. "Some things are easy te swallow, buthard te digest. Ye could hev knocked me down wi' a feather when ourTommy bolted a glass ally last June twelve months."