Bob, Son of Battle

by Alfred Ollivant

  Chapter XXVII FOR THE DEFENCE

  THAT night a vague story was whispered In the Sylvester Arms. ButTammas, on being interrogated, pursed his lips and said: "Nay, I'm swornto 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 alltheir 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 theyhad undergone a critical inspection by Maggie; for the girl liked hermankind to do honor to Kenmuir on these occasions. So she brushedup Andrew, tied his scarf, saw his boots and hands were clean, andtitivated him generally till she had converted the ungainly hobbledehoyinto a thoroughly "likely young mon."

  And all the while she was thinking of that other boy for whom on suchgala days she had been wont to perform like offices. And her father,marking the tears in her eyes, and mindful of the squire's mysterioushint, 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 travellersGodspeed; while the golden-haired lassie, fiercely gripping the olddog's tail with one hand and her sister with the other, screamed them awordless farewell.

  * * * * *

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

  In the stately entrance hall, imposing with all the evidences of a longand honorable line, were gathered now the many tenants throughout thewide March Mere Estate. Weather-beaten, rent-paying sons of the soil;most of them native-born, many of them like James Moore, whose fathershad for generations owned and farmed the land they now leased at thehands of the Sylvesters--there in the old hall they were assembled,a mighty host. And apart from the others, standing as though in ironybeneath 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 every one.

  "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 ofall, shy and blushing, a fair-haired young giant.

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

  'Twas but a simple tale. After his flight on the eventful night he hadgone south, drovering. He had written to Maggie, and been surprised andhurt to receive no reply. In vain he had waited, and too proud to writeagain, had remained ignorant of his father's recovery, neither caringnor daring to return. Then by mere chance, he had met the squire at theYork cattle-show; and that kind man, who knew his story, had eased hisfears and obtained from him a promise to return as soon as the term ofhis engagement had expired. And there he was.

  The Dalesmen gathered round the boy, listening to his tale, and inreturn 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 colorwarming his thin cheeks; but no one had noticed his emotion; and now,back again beneath his armor, he watched the scene, a sour smile playingabout 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--"Isuppose I'm onraisonable."

  Then the gong rang out its summons, and the squire led the way into thegreat dining-hall. At the one end of the long table, heavy with all thesolid delicacies of such a feast, he took his seat with the Master ofKenmuir upon his right. At the other end was Parson Leggy. While downthe sides the stalwart Dalesmen were arrayed, with M'Adam a little lostfigure 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 wereat rest. But the squire's ringing laugh and the parson's cheery tonessoon 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 maybe sure no one talked to him. His hand crept oftener to his glass thanplate, till the sallow face began to flush, and the dim eyes to growunnaturally bright.

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

  He started by telling them how glad he was to see them there. He madean allusion to Owd Bob and the Shepherds' Trophy which was heartilyapplauded. He touched on the Black Killer, and said he had a remedyto propose: that Th' Owd Un should be set upon the criminal's track--asuggestion which was received with enthusiasm, while M'Adam's cacklinglaugh could be heard high above the rest.

  From that he dwelt upon the existing condition of agriculture, thedepression in which he attributed to the late Radical Government. Hesaid that now with the Conservatives in office, and a ministry composedof "honorable men and gentlemen," he felt convinced that things wouldbrighten. The Radicals' one ambition was to set class against class,landlord against tenant. Well, during the last five hundred years, theSylvesters had rarely been--he was sorry to have to confess it--good men(laughter and dissent); but he never yet heard of the Sylvester--thoughhe 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 (avoice, "'Oo says we bain't?")--"thank you, thank you!"--well, there wasroom for him outside. (Cheers.) He thanked God from the bottom of hisheart that, during the forty years he had been responsible for theMarch Mere Estate, there had never been any friction between him and hispeople (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 thedevil!"--and he was very glad to see them all there--very glad; and hewished to give them a toast, "The Queen! God bless her!" and--wait aminute!--with her Majesty's name to couple--he was sure that graciouslady would wish it--that of "Owd Bob o' Kenmuir!" Then he sat downabruptly amid thundering applause.

  The toasts duly honoured, James Moore, by prescriptive right as Masterof Kenmuir, rose to answer.

  He began by saying that he spoke "as representing all the tenants,"--buthe was interrupted.

  "Na," came a shrill voice from half-way down the table. "Yell 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 aferret's; and the Master continued his speech.

  He spoke briefly and to the point, in short phrases. And all the whileM'Adam kept up a low-voiced, running commentary. At length he couldcontrol himself no longer. Half rising from his chair, he leant forwardwith hot face and burning eyes, and cried: "Sit doon, James Moore! Hoodaur ye stan' there like an honest man, ye whitewashed sepulchre? Sitdoon, I say, or"--threateningly--"wad ye hae me come to ye?"

  At that the Dalesmen laughed uproariously, and even the Master's grimface 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 tospeak 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 threecheers for the squire, her ladyship, and the young ladies.

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

  Slowly the clamor subsided. One by one the tenants sat down. At lengththere 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 afree country and we're a' free men. And that bein' so, I'll tak' theliberty, wi' yer permission, to say a word. It's maybe the last timeI'll be wi' ye, so I hope ye'll listen to me."

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

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

  "Gentlemen," he began, "I've bin amang ye noo a score years, and I cantruly say there's not a man in this room I can ca' 'Friend.'" He lookedalong 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 backme like a comrade gin a trouble came upon me." There was no rebuke inthe grave little voice--it merely stated a hard fact.

  "There's I doot no one amang ye but has some one--friend or blood--whamhe 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 fromme." He spoke this last half to himself, a grieved, puzzled expressionon his face, as though lately he had dreamed some ill dream.

  "Forbye Wuilie, I've no friend on God's earth. And, mind ye, a bad manaften mak's a good friend--but ye've never given me the chance. It's asair thing that, gentlemen, to ha' to fight the battle o' life alane: noone to pat ye on th' back, no one to say 'Weel done.' It hardly giesa man a chance. For gin he does try and yet fails, men never mind thetryin', they only mark the failin'."

  "I dinna blame ye. There's somethin' bred in me, it seems, as sets iveryone agin me. It's the same wi' Wullie and the tykes--they're doon on himsame as men are on me. I suppose we was made so. Sin' I was a lad it'saye bin the same. From school days I've had ivery one agin me."

  "In ma life I've had three fiends. Ma mither--and she went; then mawife"--he gave a great swallow--"and she's awa'; and I may say they'rethe only two human bein's as ha' lived on God's earth in ma time thativer tried to bear wi' me;--and Wullie. A man's mither--a man's wife--aman's dog! it's aften a' he has in this warld; and the more he prizesthem the more like they are to be took from him." The little earnestvoice shook, and the dim eyes puckered and filled.

  "Sin' I've bin amang ye--twenty-odd years--can any man here mindspeakin' 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 wordspoke to me, and that a fortnight gone, and not by a man then--by herladyship, God bless her!" He glanced up into the gallery. There wasno one visible there; but a curtain at one end shook as though it weresobbing.

  "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 hadenough o' us, and it's no for me to blame ye. And when I'm gone what'llye say o' me? 'He was a drunkard.' I am. 'He was a sinner.' I am. 'Hewas ilka thing he shouldna be.' I am. 'We're glad he's gone.' That'swhat 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' bindiffer'. D'ye ken Robbie Burns? That's a man I've read, and read, andread. D'ye ken why I love him as some o' you do yer Bibles? Becausethere's a humanity about him. A weak man hissel', aye slippin',slippin', slippin', and tryin' to haud up; sorrowin' ae minute, sinnin'the next; doin' ill deeds and wishin' 'em undone--just a plain humanman, a sinner. And that's why I'm thinkin he's tender for us as is likehim. _He understood._ It's what he wrote--after ain o' his tumbles, I'mthinkin'--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 bea sinner. Mony a mon'd be differ', mony bad'd be gude, gin they had buttheir chance. Gie 'em their chance, says he; and I'm wi' him. As 'tis,ye see me here--a bad man wi' still a streak o' good in him. Gin I'd hadma chance, aiblins 'twad be--a good man wi' just a spice o' the devil inhim. A' the differ' betune what is and what might ha' bin."