M'ADAM—in his sober moments at least—never touched David again; instead, he devoted himself to the more congenial exercise of the whiplash of his tongue. And he was wise; for David, who was already nigh a head the taller of the two, and comely and strong in proportion, could, if he would, have taken his father in the hollow of his hand and crumpled him like a dry leaf. Moreover, with his tongue, at least, the little man enjoyed the noble pleasure of making the boy wince. And so the war was carried on none the less vindictively.
Meanwhile another summer was passing away, and every day brought fresh proofs of the prowess of Owd Bob. Tammas, whose stock of yarns anent Rex son of Rally had after forty years' hard wear begun to pall on the loyal ears of even old Jonas, found no lack of new material now. In the Dalesman's Daughter in Silverdale and in the Border Ram at Grammoch-town, each succeeding market day brought some fresh tale. Men told how the gray dog had outdone Gypsy Jack, the sheep-sneak; how he had cut out a Kenmuir shearling from the very centre of Londesley's pack; and a thousand like stories.
The Gray Dogs of Kenmuir have always been equally heroes and favorites in the Daleland. And the confidence of the Dalesmen in Owd Bob was now invincible. Sometimes on market days he would execute some unaccountable maneuvre, and... strange shepherd would ask: “What's the gray dog at?” To which the nearest Dalesman would reply: “Nay, I canno tell ye! But he's reet enough. Yon's Owd Bob o' Kenmuir.”
Whereon the stranger would prick his ears and watch with close attention.
“Yon's Owd Bob o' Kenmuir, is he?” he would say; for already among the faculty the name was becoming known. And never in such a case did the young dog fail to justify the faith of his supporters.
It came, therefore, as a keen disappointment to every Dalesman, from Herbert Trotter, Secretary of the Trials, to little Billy Thornton, when the Master persisted in his decision not to run the dog for the Cup in the approaching Dale Trials; and that though parson, squire, and even Lady Eleanour essayed to shake his purpose. It was nigh fifty years since Rex son o' Rally had won back the Trophy for the land that gave it birth; it was time, they thought, for a Daleland dog, a Gray Dog of Kenmuir—the terms are practically synonymous—to bring it home again. And Tammas, that polished phrase-maker, was only expressing the feelings of every Dalesman in the room when, one night at the Arms, he declared of Owd Bob that “to ha' run was to ha' won.” At which M'Adam sniggered audibly and winked at Red Wull. “To ha' run was to ha' one—lickin'; to rin next year'll be to—”
“Win next year.” Tammas interposed dogmatically. “Onless”—with shivering sarcasm—“you and yer Wullie are thinkin' o' winnin'.”
The little man rose from his solitary seat at the back of the room and pattered across. “Wullie and I are thinkin' o' t,” he whispered loudly in the old man's ear. “And mair: what Adam M'Adam and his Red Wull think o' doin', that, ye may remairk, Mr. Thornton, they do. Next year we rin, and next year—we win. Come, Wullie, we'll leave 'em to chew that”; and he marched out of the room amid the jeers of the assembled topers.
When quiet was restored, it was Jim Mason who declared: “One thing certain, win or no, they'll not be far off.”
Meanwhile the summer ended abruptly. Hard on the heels of a sweltering autumn the winter came down. In that year the Daleland assumed very early its white cloak. The Silver Mere was soon ice-veiled; the Wastrel rolled sullenly down below Kenmuir, its creeks and quiet places tented with jagged sheets of ice; while the Scaur and Muir Pike raised hoary heads against the frosty blue. It was the season still remembered in the North as the White Winter—the worst, they say, since the famous 1808.
For days together Jim Mason was stuck with his bags in the Dalesman's Daughter, and there was no communication between the two Dales. On the Mere Marches the snow massed deep and impassable in thick, billowy drifts. In the Devil's Bowl men said it lay piled some score feet deep. And sheep, seeking shelter in the ghylls and protected spots, were buried and lost in their hundreds.
That is the time to test the hearts of shepherds and sheep-dogs, when the wind runs ice-cold across the waste of white, and the low woods on the upland walks shiver black through a veil of snow, and sheep must be found and folded or lost: a trial of head as well as heart, of resource as well as resolution.
In that winter more than one man and many a dog lost his life in the quiet performance of his duty, gliding to death over the slippery snow-shelves, or overwhelmed beneath an avalanche of the warm, suffocating white: “smoored,” as they call it. Many a deed was done, many a death died, recorded only in that Book which holds the names of those—men or animals, souls or no souls—who tried.
They found old Wrottesley, the squire's head shepherd, lying one morning at Gill's foot, like a statue in its white bed, the snow gently blowing about the venerable face, calm and beautiful in death. And stretched upon his bosom, her master's hands blue, and stiff, still clasped about her neck, his old dog Jess. She had huddled there, as a last hope, to keep the dear, dead master warm, her great heart riven, hoping where there was no hope.
That night she followed him to herd sheep in a better land. Death from exposure, Dingley, the vet., gave it; but as little M'Adam, his eyes dimmer than their wont, declared huskily; “We ken better, Wullie.”
Cyril Gilbraith, a young man not overburdened with emotions, told with a sob in his voice how, at the terrible Rowan Rock, Jim Mason had stood, impotent, dumb, big-eyed, watching Betsy—Betsy, the friend and partner of the last ten years—slipping over the ice-cold surface, silently appealing to the hand that had never failed her before—sliding to Eternity.
In the Daleland that winter the endurance of many a shepherd and his dog was strained past breaking-point. From the frozen Black Water to the white-peaked Grammoch Pike two men only, each always with his shaggy adjutant, never owned defeat; never turned back; never failed in a thing attempted.
In the following spring, Mr. Tinkerton, the squire's agent, declared that James Moore and Adam M'Adam—Owd Bob, rather, and Red Wull—had lost between them fewer sheep than any single farmer on the whole March Mere Estate—a proud record.
Of the two, many a tale was told that winter. They were invincible, incomparable; worthy antagonists.
It was Owd Bob who, when he could not drive the band of Black Faces over the narrow Razorback which led to safety, induced them tofollowhim across that ten-inch death-track, one by one, like children behind their mistress. It was Red Wull who was seen coming down the precipitous Saddler's How, shouldering up that grand old gentleman, King o' the Dale, whose leg was broken.
The gray dog it was who found Cyril Gilbraith by the White Stones, with a cigarette and a sprained ankle, on the night the whole village was out with lanterns searching for the well-loved young scapegrace. It was the Tailless Tyke and his master who one bitter evening came upon little Mrs. Burton, lying in a huddle beneath the lea of the fast-whitening Druid's Pillar with her latest baby on her breast. It was little M'Adam who took off his coat and wrapped the child in it; little M'Adam who unwound his plaid, threw it like a breastband across the dog's great chest, and tied the ends round the weary woman's waist. Red Wull it was who dragged her back to the Sylvester Arms and life, straining like a giant through the snow, while his master staggered behind with the babe in his arms. When they reached the inn it was M'Adam who, with a smile on his face, told the landlord what he thought of him for sendinghiswife across the Marches on such a day and on his errand. To which: “I'd a cauld,” pleaded honest Jem.
For days together David could not cross the Stony Bottom to Kenmuir. His enforced confinement to the Grange led, however, to no more frequent collisions than usual with his father. For M'Adam and Red Wull were out, at all hours, in all weathers, night and day, toiling at their work of salvation.
At last, one afternoon, David managed to cross the Bottom at a point where a fallen thorn-tree gave him a bridge over the soft snow. He stayed but a little while at Kenmuir, yet when he started for home it was snowing again.
By the time he had crossed the ice-draped bridge over the Wastrel, a blizzard was raging. The wind roared past him, smiting him so that he could barely stand; and the snow leaped at him so that he could not see. But he held on doggedly; slipping, sliding, tripping, down and up again, with one arm shielding his face. On, on, into the white darkness, blindly on sobbing, stumbling, dazed.
At length, nigh dead, he reached the brink of the Stony Bottom. He looked up and he looked down, but nowhere in that blinding mist could he see the fallen thorn-tree. He took a step forward into the white morass, and 'sank up to his thigh. He struggled feebly to free himself, and sank deeper. The snow wreathed, twisting, round him like a white flame, and he collapsed, softly crying, on that soft bed.
“I canna—I canna!” he moaned.
Little Mrs. Moore, her face whiter and frailer than ever, stood at the window, looking out into the storm.
“I canna rest for thinkin' o' th' lad,” she said. Then, turning, she saw her husband, his fur cap down over his ears, buttoning his pilot-coat about his throat, while Owd Bob stood at his feet, waiting.
“Ye're no goin', James?” she asked, anxiously.
“But I am, lass,” he answered; and she knew him too well to say more.
So those two went quietly out to save life or lose it, nor counted the cost.
Down a wind-shattered slope—over a spar of ice—up an eternal hill—a forlorn hope.
In a whirlwind chaos of snow, the tempest storming at them, the white earth lashing them, they fought a good fight. In front, Owd Bob, the snow clogging his shaggy coat, his hair cutting like lashes of steel across eyes, his head lowered as he followed the finger of God; and close behind, James Moore, his back stern against the storm, stalwart still, yet swaying like a tree before the wind.
So they battled through to the brink of the Stony Bottom—only to arrive too late.
For, just as the Master peering about him, had caught sight of a shapeless lump lying motionless in front, there loomed across the snow-choked gulf through the white riot of the storm a gigantic figure forging, doggedly forward, his great head down to meet the hurricane. And close behind, buffeted and bruised, stiff and staggering, a little dauntless figure holding stubbornly on, clutching with one hand at the gale; and a shrill voice, whirled away on the trumpet tones of the wind, crying:
'Noo, Wullie, wi' me!Scots wha' hae wi' Wallace bled!Scots wham Bruce has often led!Welcome to ——!'
“Here he is, Wullie!”
'—or to victorie!”
The brave little voice died away. The quest; was over; the lost sheep found. And the last James Moore saw of them was the same small, gallant form, half carrying, half dragging the rescued boy out of the Valley of the Shadow and away.
David was none the worse for his adventure, for on reaching home M'Adam produced a familiar bottle.
“Here's something to warm yer inside, and”—making a feint at the strap on the walls—' “here's something to do the same by yer ——. But, Wullie, oot again!”
And out they went—unreckoned heroes.
It was but a week later, in the very heart of the bitter time, that there came a day when, from gray dawn to grayer eve, neither James Moore nor Owd Bob stirred out into the wintry white. And the Master's face was hard and set as it always was in time of trouble.
Outside, the wind screamed down the Dale; while the snow fell relentlessly; softly fingering the windows, blocking the doors, and piling deep against the walls. Inside the house there was a strange quiet; no sound save for hushed voices, and upstairs the shuffling of muffled feet.
Below, all day long, Owd Bob patrolled the passage like some silent, gray spectre.
Once there came a low knocking at the door; and David, his face and hair and cap smothered in the all-pervading white, came in with an eddy of snow. He patted Owd Bob, and moved on tiptoe into the kitchen. To him came Maggie softly, shoes in hand, with white, frightened face. The two whispered anxiously awhile like brother and sister as they were; then the boy crept quietly away; only a little pool of water on the floor and wet, treacherous foot-dabs toward the door testifying to the visitor.
Toward evening the wind died down, but the mourning flakes still fell.
With the darkening of night Owd Bob retreated to the porch and lay down on his blanket. The light from the lamp at the head of the stairs shone through the crack of open door on his dark head and the eyes that never slept.
The hours passed, and the gray knight still kept his vigil. Alone in the darkness—alone, it almost seemed, in the house—he watched. His head lay motionless along his paws, but the steady gray eyes never flinched or drooped.
Time tramped on on leaden foot, and still he waited; and ever the pain of hovering anxiety was stamped deeper in the gray eyes.
At length it grew past bearing; the hollow stillness of the house overcame him. He rose, pushed open the door, and softly pattered across the passage.
At the foot of the stairs he halted, his forepaws on the first step, his grave face and pleading eyes uplifted, as though he were praying. The dim light fell on the raised head; and the white escutcheon on his breast shone out like the snow on Salmon.
At length, with a sound like a sob, he dropped to the ground, and stood listening, his tail dropping and head raised. Then he turned and began softly pacing up and down, like some velvet-footed sentinel at the gate of death.
Up and down, up and down, softly as the falling snow, for a weary, weary while.
Again he stopped and stood, listening intently, at the foot of the stairs; and his gray coat quivered as though there were a draught.
Of a sudden, the deathly stillness of the house was broken. Upstairs, feet were running hurriedly. There was a cry, and again silence.
A life was coming in; a life was going out.
The minutes passed; hours passed; and, at the sunless dawn, a life passed.
And all through that night of age-long agony the gray figure stood, still as a statue, at the foot of the stairs. Only, when, with the first chill breath of the morning, a dry, quick-quenched sob of a strong man sorrowing for the helpmeet of a score of years, and a tiny cry of a new-born child wailing because its mother was not, came down to his ears, the Gray Watchman dropped his head upon his bosom, and, with a little whimpering note, crept back to his blanket.
A little later the door above opened, and James Moore tramped down the stairs. He looked taller and gaunter than his wont, but there was no trace of emotion on his face.
At the foot of the stairs Owd Bob stole out to meet him. He came crouching up, head and tail down, in a manner no man ever saw before or since. At his master's feet he stopped.
Then, for one short moment, James Moore's whole face quivered.
“Well, lad,” he said, quite low, and his voice broke; “she's awa'!”
That was all; for they were an undemonstrative couple.
Then they turned and went out together into the bleak morning.
To David M'Adam the loss of gentle Elizabeth Moore was as real a grief as to her children. Yet he manfully smothered his own aching heart and devoted himself to comforting the mourners at Kenmuir.
In the days succeeding Mrs. Moore's death the boy recklessly neglected his duties at the Grange. But little M'Adam forbore to rebuke him. At times, indeed, he essayed to be passively kind. David, however, was too deeply sunk in his great sorrow to note the change.
The day of the funeral came. The earth was throwing off its ice-fetters; and the Dale was lost in a mourning mist.
In the afternoon M'Adam was standing at the window of the kitchen, contemplating the infinite weariness of the scene, when the door of the house opened and shut noiselessly. Red Wull raised himself on to the sill and growled, and David hurried past the window making for Kenmuir. M'Adam watched the passing figure indifferently; then with an angry oath sprang to the window.
“Bring me back that coat, ye thief!” he cried, tapping fiercely on the pane. “Tak' it aff at onst, ye muckle gowk, or I'll come and tear it aff ye. D'ye see him, Wullie? the great coof has ma coat—me black coat, new last Michaelmas, and it rainin' 'nough to melt it.”
He threw the window up with a bang and leaned out.
“Bring it back, I tell ye, ondootiful, or I'll summons ye. Though ye've no respect for me, ye might have for ma claithes. Ye're too big for yer ain boots, let alane ma coat. D'ye think I had it cut for a elephant? It's burst-in', I tell ye. Tak' it aff! Fetch it here, or I'll e'en send Wullie to bring it!”
David paid no heed except to begin running heavily down the hill. The coat was stretched in wrinkled agony across his back; his big, red wrists protruded like shank-bones from the sleeves; and the little tails flapped wearily in vain attempts to reach the wearer's legs.
M'Adam, bubbling over with indignation, scrambled half through the open window. Then, tickled at the amazing impudence of the thing, he paused, smiled, dropped to the ground again, and watched the uncouth, retreating figure with chuckling amusement.
“Did ye ever see the like o' that, Wullie?” he muttered. “Ma puir coat—puir wee coatie! it gars me greet to see her in her pain. A man's coat, Wullie, is aften unco sma' for his son's back; and David there is strainin' and stretchin' her nigh to brakin', for a' the world as he does ma forbearance. And what's he care aboot the one or t'ither?—not a finger-flip.”
As he stood watching the disappearing figure there began the slow tolling of the minute-bell in the little Dale church. Now near, now far, now loud, now low, its dull chant rang out through the mist like the slow-dropping tears of a mourning world.
M'Adam listened, almost reverently, as the bell tolled on, the only sound in the quiet Dale. Outside, a drizzling rain was falling; the snow dribbled down the hill in muddy tricklets; and trees and roofs and windows dripped.
And still the bell tolled on, calling up relentlessly sad memories of the long ago.
It was on just such another dreary day, in just such another December, and not so many years gone by, that the light had gone forever out of his life.
The whole picture rose as instant to his eyes as if it had been but yesterday. That insistent bell brought the scene surging back to him: the dismal day; the drizzle; the few mourners; little David decked out in black, his fair hair contrasting with his gloomy clothes, his face swollen with weeping; the Dale hushed, it seemed in death, save for the tolling of the bell; and his love had left him and gone to the happy land the hymn-books talk of.
Red Wull, who had been watching him uneasily, now came up and shoved his muzzle into his master's hand. The cold touch brought the little man back to earth. He shook himself, turned wearily away from the window, and went to the door of the house.
He stood there looking out; and all round him was the eternal drip, drip of the thaw. The wind lulled, and again the minute-bell tolled out clear and inexorable, resolute to recall what was and what had been.
With a choking gasp the little man turned into the house, and ran up the stairs and into his room. He dropped on his knees beside the great chest in the corner, and unlocked the bottom drawer, the key turning noisily in its socket.
In the drawer he searched with feverish fingers, and produced at length a little paper packet wrapped about with a stained yellow ribbon. It was the ribbon she had used to weave on Sundays into her soft hair.
Inside the packet was a cheap, heart-shaped frame, and in it a photograph.
Up there it was too dark to see. The little man ran down the stairs, Red Wull jostling him as he went, and hurried to the window in the kitchen.
It was a sweet, laughing face that looked up at him from the frame, demure yet arch, shy yet roguish—a face to look at and a face to love.
As he looked a wintry smile, wholly tender, half tearful, stole over the little man's face.
“Lassie,” he whispered, and his voice was infinitely soft, “it's lang sin' I've daured look at ye. But it's no that ye're forgotten, dearie.”
Then he covered his eyes with his hand as though he were blinded.
“Dinna look at me sae, lass!” he cried, and fell on his knees, kissing the picture, hugging it to him and sobbing passionately.
Red Wull came up and pushed his face compassionately into his master's; but the little man shoved him roughly away, and the dog retreated into a corner, abashed and reproachful.
Memories swarmed back on the little man.
It was more than a decade ago now, and yet he dared barely think of that last evening when she had lain so white and still in the little room above.
“Pit the bairn on the bed, Adam man,” she had said in low tones. “I'll be gaein' in a wee while noo. It's the lang good-by to you—and him.”
He had done her bidding and lifted David up. The tiny boy lay still a moment, looking at this white-faced mother whom he hardly recognized.
“Minnie!” he called piteously. Then, thrusting a small, dirty hand into his pocket, he pulled out a grubby sweet.
“Minnie, ha' a sweetie—ain o' Davie's sweeties!” and he held it out anxiously in his warm plump palm, thinking it a certain cure for any ill.
“Eat it for mither,” she said, smiling tenderly; and then: “Davie, ma heart, I'm leavin' ye.”
The boy ceased sucking the sweet, and looked at her, the corners of his mouth drooping pitifully.
“Ye're no gaein' awa', mither?” he asked, his face all working. “Ye'll no leave yen wee laddie?”
“Ay, laddie, awa'—reet awa'. HE's callin' me.” She tried to smile; but her mother's heart was near to bursting.
“Ye'll tak' yen wee Davie wi' ye mither!” the child pleaded, crawling up toward her face.
The great tears rolled, unrestrained, down her wan cheeks, and M'Adam, at the head of the bed, was sobbing openly.
“Eh, ma bairn, ma bairn, I'm sair to leave ye!” she cried brokenly. “Lift him for me, Adam.”
He placed the child in her arms; but she was too weak to hold him. So he laid him upon his mother's pillows; and the boy wreathed his soft arms about her neck and sobbed tempestuously.
And the two lay thus together.
Just before she died, Flora turned her head and whispered:
“Adam, ma man, ye'll ha' to be mither and father baith to the lad noo”; and she looked at him with tender confidence in her dying eyes.
“I wull! afore God as I stan' here I wull!” he declared passionately. Then she died, and there was a look of ineffable peace upon her face.
“Mither and father baith!”
The little man rose to his feet and flung the photograph from him. Red Wull pounced upon it; but M'Adam leapt at him as he mouthed it.
“Git awa', ye devil!” he screamed; and, picking it up, stroked it lovingly with trembling fingers.
“Maither and father baith!”
How had he fulfilled his love's last wish? How!
“Oh God! “—and he fell upon his knees at the table-side, hugging the picture, sobbing and praying.
Red Wull cowered in the far corner of the room, and then crept whining up to where his master knelt. But M'Adam heeded him not, and the great dog slunk away again.
There the little man knelt in the gloom of the winter's afternoon, a miserable penitent. His gray-flecked head was bowed upon his arms; his hands clutched the picture; and he prayed aloud in gasping, halting tones.
“Gie me grace, O God! 'Father and mither baith,' ye said, Flora—and I ha'na done it. But 'tis no too late—say it's no, lass. Tell me there's time yet, and say ye forgie me. I've tried to bear wi' him mony and mony a time. But he's vexed me, and set himself agin me, and stiffened my back, and ye ken hoo I was aye quick to tak' offence. But I'll mak' it up to him—mak' it up to him, and mair. I'll humble masel' afore him, and that'll be bitter enough. And I'll be father and mither baith to him. But there's bin none to help me; and it's bin sair wi'oot ye. And—. but, eh, lassie, I'm wearyin' for ye!”
It was a dreary little procession that wound in the drizzle from Kenmuir to the little Dale Church. At the head stalked James Moore, and close behind David in his meagre coat. While last of all, as if to guide the stragglers in the weary road, come Owd Bob.
There was a full congregation in the tiny church now. In the squire's pew were Cyril Gilbraith, Muriel Sylvester, and, most conspicuous, Lady Eleanour. Her slender figure was simply draped in gray, with gray fur about the neck and gray fur edging sleeves and jacket; her veil was lifted, and you could see the soft hair about her temples, like waves breaking on white cliffs, and her eyes big with tender sympathy as she glanced toward the pew upon her right.
For there were the mourners from Kenmuir: the Master, tall, grim, and gaunt; and beside him Maggie, striving to be calm, and little Andrew, the miniature of his father.
Alone, in the pew behind, David M'Adam in his father's coat.
The back of the church was packed with farmers from the whole March Mere Estate; friends from Silverdale and Grammoch-town; and nearly every soul in Wastrel-dale, come to show their sympathy for the living and reverence for the dead.
At last the end came in the wet dreariness of the little churchyard, and slowly the mourners departed, until at length were left only the parson, the Master, and Owd Bob.
The parson was speaking in rough, short accents, digging nervously at the wet ground. The other, tall and gaunt, his face drawn and half-averted, stood listening. By his side was Owd Bob, scanning his master's countenance, a wistful compassion deep in the sad gray eyes; while close by, one of the parson's terriers was nosing inquisitively in the wet grass.
Of a sudden, James Moore, his face still turned away, stretched out a hand. The parson, broke off abruptly and grasped it. Then the two men strode away in opposite directions, the terrier hopping on three legs and shaking the rain off his hard coat.
David's steps sounded outside. M'Adam rose from his knees. The door of the house opened, and the boy's feet shuffled in the passage.
“David!” the little man called in a tremulous voice.
He stood in the half-light, one hand on the table, the other clasping the picture. His eyes were bleared, his thin hair all tossed, and he was shaking.
“David,” he called again; “I've somethin' I wush to say to ye!”
The boy burst into the room. His face was stained with tears and rain; and the new black coat was wet and slimy all down the front, and on the elbows were green-brown, muddy blots. For, on his way home, he had flung himself down in the Stony Bottom just as he was, heedless of the wet earth and his father's coat, and, lying on his face thinking of that second mother lost to him, had wept his heart out in a storm of passionate grief.
Now he stood defiantly, his hand upon the door.
“What d'yo' want?”
The little man looked from him to the picture in his hand.
“Help me, Flora—he'll no,” he prayed. Then raising his eyes, he began: “I'd like to say—I've bin thinkin'—I think I should tell ye—it's no an easy thing for a man to say—”
He broke off short. The self-imposed task was almost more than he could accomplish.
He looked appealingly at David. But there was no glimmer of understanding in that white, set countenance.
“O God, it's maist mair than I can do!” the little man muttered; and the perspiration stood upon his forehead. Again he began: “David, after I saw ye this afternoon steppin' doon the hill—” Again he paused. His glance rested unconsciously upon the coat. David mistook the look; mistook the dimness in his father's eyes; mistook the tremor in his voice.
“Here 'tis! tak' yo' coat!” he cried passionately; and, tearing it off, flung it down at his father's feet. “Tak' it—and—-and—curse yo'.”
He banged out of the room and ran upstairs; and, locking himself in, threw himself on to his bed and sobbed.
Red Wull made a movement to fly at the retreating figure; then turned to his master, his stump-tail vibrating with pleasure. But little M'Adam was looking at the wet coat now lying in a wet bundle at his feet.
“Curse ye,” he repeated softly. “Curse ye—ye heard him. Wullie?”
A bitter smile crept across his face. He looked again at the picture now lying crushed in his hand.
“Ye canna say I didna try; ye canna ask me to agin,” he muttered, and slipped it into his pocket. “Niver agin, Wullie; not if the Queen were to ask it.”
Then he went out into the gloom and drizzle, still smiling the same bitter smile.
That night, when it came to closing-time at the Sylvester Arms, Jem Burton found a little gray-haired figure lying on the floor in the tap-room. At the little man's head lay a great dog.
“Yo' beast!” said the righteous publican, regarding the figure of his best customer with fine scorn. Then catching sight of a photograph in the little man's hand:
“Oh, yo're that sort, are yo', foxy?” he leered. “Gie us a look at 'er,” and he tried to disengage the picture from the other's grasp. But at the attempt the great dog rose, bared his teeth, and assumed such a diabolical expression that the big landlord retreated hurriedly behind the bar.
“Two on ye!” he shouted viciously, rattling his heels; “beasts baith!”
M'ADAM never forgave his son. After the scene on the evening of the funeral there could be no alternative but war for all time. The little man had attempted to humble himself, and been rejected; and the bitterness of defeat, when he had deserved victory, rankled like a poisoned barb in his bosom.
Yet the heat of his indignation was directed not against David, but against the Master of Kenmuir. To the influence and agency of James Moore he attributed his discomfiture, and bore himself accordingly. In public or in private, in tap-room or market, he never wearied of abusing his enemy.
“Feel the loss o' his wife, d'ye say?” he would cry. “Ay, as muckle as I feel the loss o' my hair. James Moore can feel naethin', I tell ye, except, aiblins, a mischance to his meeserable dog.”
When the two met, as they often must, it was always M'Adam's endeavor to betray his enemy into an unworthy expression of feeling. But James Moore, sorely tried as he often was, never gave way. He met the little man's sneers with a quelling silence, looking down on his asp-tongued antagonist with such a contempt flashing from his blue-gray eyes as hurt his adversary more than words.
Only once was he spurred into reply. It was in the tap-room of the Dalesman's Daughter on the occasion of the big spring fair in Grammoch-town, when there was a goodly gathering of farmers and their dogs in the room.
M'Adam was standing at the fireplace with Red Wull at his side.
“It's a noble pairt ye play, James Moore,” he cried loudly across the room, “settin' son against father, and dividin' hoose against hoose. It's worthy o' ye we' yer churchgoin', and yer psalm-singin', and yer godliness.”
The Master looked up from the far end of the room.
“Happen yo're not aware, M'Adam,” he said sternly, “that, an' it had not bin for me, David'd ha' left you years agone—and 'twould nob'but ha' served yo' right, I'm thinkin'.”
The little man was beaten on his own ground, so he changed front.
“Dinna shout so, man—I have ears to hear, Forbye ye irritate Wullie.”
The Tailless Tyke, indeed, had advanced from the fireplace, and now stood, huge and hideous, in the very centre of the room. There was distant thunder in his throat, a threat upon his face, a challenge in every wrinkle. And the Gray Dog stole gladly out from behind his master to take up the gage of battle.
Straightway there was silence; tongues ceased to wag, tankards to clink. Every man and every dog was quietly gathering about those two central figures. Not one of them all but had his score to wipe off against the Tailless Tyke; not one of them but was burning to join in, the battle once begun. And the two gladiators stood looking past one another, muzzle to muzzle, each with a tiny flash of teeth glinting between his lips.
But the fight was not to be; for the twentieth time the Master intervened.
“Bob, lad, coom in!” he called, and, bending, grasped his favorite by the neck.
M'Adam laughed softly.
“Wullie, Wullie, to me!” he cried. “The look o' you's enough for that gentleman.”
“If they get fightin' it'll no be Bob here I'll hit, I warn yo', M'Adam,” said the Master grimly.
“Gin ye sae muckle as touched Wullie d'ye ken what I'd do, James Moore?” asked the little man very smoothly.
“Yes—sweer,” the other replied, and strode out of the room amid a roar of derisive laughter at M'Adam's expense.
Owd Bob had now attained wellnigh the perfection of his art. Parson Leggy declared roundly that his like had not been seen since the days of Rex son of Rally. Among the Dalesmen he was a heroic favorite, his prowess and gentle ways winning him friends on every hand. But the point that told most heavily for him was that in all things he was the very antithesis of Red Wull.
Barely a man in the country-side but owed that ferocious savage a grudge; not a man of them all who dared pay it. Once Long Kirby, full of beer and valor, tried to settle his account. Coming on M'Adam and Red Wull as he was driving into Grammoch-town, he leant over and with his thong dealt the dog a terrible sword-like slash that raised an angry ridge of red from hip to shoulder; and was twenty yards down the road before the little man's shrill curse reached his ear, drowned in a hideous bellow.
He stood up and lashed the colt, who, quick on his legs for a young un, soon settled to his gallop. But, glancing over his shoulder, he saw a hounding form behind, catching him as though he were walking. His face turned sickly white; he screamed; he flogged; he looked back. Right beneath the tail-board was the red devil in the dust; while racing a furlong behind on the turnpike road was the mad figure of M'Adam.
The smith struck back and flogged forward. It was of no avail. With a tiger-like bound the murderous brute leapt on the flying trap. At the shock of the great body the colt was thrown violently on his side; Kirby was tossed over the hedge; and Red Wull pinned beneath the debris.
M'Adam had time to rush up and save a tragedy.
“I've a mind to knife ye, Kirby,” he panted, as he bandaged the smith's broken head.
After that you may be sure the Dalesmen preferred to swallow insults rather than to risk their lives; and their impotence only served to fan their hatred to white heat.
The working methods of the antagonists were as contrasted as their appearances. In a word, the one compelled where the other coaxed.
His enemies said the Tailless Tyke was rough; not even Tammas denied he was ready. His brain was as big as his body, and he used them both to some purpose. “As quick as a cat, with the heart of a lion and the temper of Nick's self,” was Parson Leggy's description.
What determination could effect, that could Red Wall; but achievement by inaction—supremest of all strategies—was not for him. In matters of the subtlest handling, where to act anything except indifference was to lose, with sheep restless, fearful forebodings hymned to them by the wind, panic hovering unseen above them, when an ill-considered movement spelt catastrophe—then was Owd Bob o' Kenmuir incomparable.
Men still tell how, when the squire's new thrashing-machine ran amuck in Grammoch-town, and for some minutes the market square was a turbulent sea of blaspheming men, yelping dogs, and stampeding sheep, only one flock stood calm as a mill-pond by the bull-ring, watching the riot with almost indifference. And in front, sitting between them and the storm, was a quiet gray dog, his mouth stretched in a capacious yawn: to yawn was to win, and he won.
When the worst of the uproar was over, many a glance of triumph was shot first at that one still pack, and then at M'Adam, as he waded through the disorder of huddling sheep.
“And wheer's your Wullie noo?” asked Tapper scornfully.
“Weel,” the little man answered with a quiet smile, “at this minute he's killin' your Rasper doon by the pump.” Which was indeed the case; for big blue Rasper had interfered with the great dog in the performance of his duty, and suffered accordingly.
Spring passed into summer; and the excitement as to the event of the approaching Trials, when at length the rivals would be pitted against one another, reached such a height as old Jonas Maddox, the octogenarian, could hardly recall.
Down in the Sylvester Arms there was almost nightly a conflict between M'Adam and Tammas Thornton, spokesman of the Dales men. Many a long-drawn bout of words had the two anent the respective merits and Cup chances of red and gray. In these duels Tammas was usually worsted. His temper would get the better of his discretion; and the cynical debater would be lost in the hot-tongued partisan.
During these encounters the others would, as a rule, maintain a rigid silence. Only when their champion was being beaten, and it was time for strength of voice to vanquish strength of argument, they joined in right lustily and roared the little man down, for all the world like the gentlemen who rule the Empire at Westminster.
Tammas was an easy subject for M'Adam to draw, but David was an easier. Insults directed at himself the boy bore with a stolidity born of long use. But a poisonous dart shot against his friends at Kenmuir never failed to achieve its object. And the little man evinced an amazing talent for the concoction of deft lies respecting James Moore.
“I'm hearin',” said he, one evening, sitting in the kitchen, sucking his twig; “I'm hearin' James Moore is gaein' to git married agin.”
“Yo're hearin' lies—or mair-like tellin' 'em,” David answered shortly. For he treated his father now with contemptuous indifference.
“Seven months sin' his wife died,” the little man continued meditatively. “Weel, I'm on'y 'stonished he's waited sae lang. Ain buried, anither come on—that's James Moore.”
David burst angrily out of the room.
“Gaein' to ask him if it's true?” called his father after him. “Gude luck to ye—and him.”
David had now a new interest at Kenmuir. In Maggie he found an endless source of study. On the death of her mother the girl had taken up the reins of government at Kenmuir; and gallantly she played her part, whether in tenderly mothering the baby, wee Anne, or in the sterner matters of household work. She did her duty, young though she was, with a surprising, old-fashioned womanliness that won many a smile of approval from her father, and caused David's eyes to open with astonishment.
And he soon discovered that Maggie, mistress of Kenmuir, was another person from his erstwhile playfellow and servant.
The happy days when might ruled right were gone, never to be recalled. David often regretted them, especially when in a conflict of tongues, Maggie, with her quick answers and teasing eyes, was driving him sulky and vanquished from the field. The two were perpetually squabbling now. In the good old days, he remembered bitterly, squabbles between them were unknown. He had never permitted them; any attempt at independent thought or action was as sternly quelled as in the Middle Ages. She must follow where he led on—“Ma word!”
Now she was mistress where he had been master; hers was to command, his to obey. In consequence they were perpetually at war. And yet he would sit for hours in the kitchen and watch her, as she went about her business, with solemn, interested eyes, half of admiration, half of amusement. In the end Maggie always turned on him with a little laugh touched with irritation.
“Han't yo' got nothin' better'n that to do, nor lookin' at me?” she asked one Saturday about a month before Cup Day.
“No, I han't,” the pert fellow rejoined.
“Then I wish yo' had. It mak's me fair jumpety yo' watchin' me so like ony cat a mouse.”
“Niver yo' fash yo'sel' account o' me, ma wench,” he answered calmly.
“Yo' wench, indeed!” she cried, tossing her head.
“Ay, or will be,” he muttered.
“What's that?” she cried, springing round, a flush of color on her face.
“Nowt, my dear. Yo'll know so soon as I want yo' to, yo' may be sure, and no sooner.”
The girl resumed her baking, half angry, half suspicious.
“I dunno' what yo' mean, Mr. M'Adam,” she said.
“Don't yo', Mrs. M'A——”
The rest was lost in the crash of a falling plate; whereat David laughed quietly, and asked if he should help pick up the bits.
On the same evening at the Sylvester Arms an announcement was made that knocked the breath out of its hearers.
In the debate that night on the fast-approaching Dale Trials and the relative abilities of red and gray, M'Adam on the one side, and Tammas, backed by Long Kirby and the rest, on the other, had cudgelled each other with more than usual vigor. The controversy rose to fever-heat; abuse succeeded argument; and the little man again and again was hooted into silence.
“It's easy laffin',” he cried at last, “but ye'll laff t'ither side o' yer ugly faces on Cup Day.”
“Will us, indeed? Us'll see,” came the derisive chorus.
“We'll whip ye till ye're deaf, dumb, and blind, Wullie and I.”
''Yo'll not!''
“We will!”
The voices were rising like the east wind in March.
“Yo'll not, and for a very good reason too,” asseverated Tammas loudly.
“Gie us yer reason, ye muckle liar,” cried the little man, turning on him.
“Becos——” began Jim Mason and stopped to rub his nose.
“Yo' 'old yo' noise, Jim,” recommended Rob Saunderson.
“Becos——” it was Tammas this time who paused.
“Git on wi' it, ye stammerin' stirk!” cried M'Adam. “Why?”
“Becos—Owd Bob'll not rin.”
Tammas sat back in his chair.
“What!” screamed the little man, thrusting forward.
“What's that!” yelled Long Kirby, leaping to his feet.
“Mon, say it agin!” shouted Rob.
“What's owd addled eggs tellin'?” cried Liz Burton.
“Dang his 'ead for him!” shouts Tupper.
“Fill his eye!” says Ned Hoppin.
They jostled round the old man's chair: M'Adam in front; Jem Burton and Long Kirby leaning over his shoulder; Liz behind her father; Saunderson and Tupper tackling him on either side; while the rest peered and elbowed in the rear.
The announcement had fallen like a thunderbolt among them.
Tammas looked slowly up at the little mob of eager faces above him. Pride at the sensation caused by his news struggled in his countenance with genuine sorrow for the matter of it.
“Ay, yo' may well 'earken all on yo'. Tis enough to mak' the deadies listen. I says agin: We's'll no rin oor Bob fot' Cup. And yo' may guess why. Bain't every mon, Mr. M'Adam, as'd pit aside his chanst o' the Cup, and that 'maist a gift for him”—M'Adam's tongue was in his cheek—“and it a certainty,” the old man continued warmly, “oot o' respect for his wife's memory.”
The news was received in utter silence. The shock of the surprise, coupled with the bitterness of the disappointment, froze the slow tongues of his listeners.
Only one small voice broke the stillness.
“Oh, the feelin' man! He should git a reduction o' rent for sic a display o' proper speerit. I'll mind Mr. Hornbut to let auld Sylvester ken o't.”
Which he did, and would have got a thrashing for his pains had not Cyril Gilbraith thrown him out of the parsonage before the angry cleric could lay hands upon him.